


Of Growing Things

by iraya, paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Politics, Slow Burn, and Bilbo, and gets to know the hobbits, thorin moves to the Shire, while in Erebor a plot starts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iraya/pseuds/iraya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin accompanies his father on a diplomatic mission to a little hamlet west of Rivendell. There, they will meet the hobbit emissary and renegotiate the trade contract between the Shire and Erebor. But with Erebor struggling to pay what the hobbits demand for their produce, and the hobbits controlling the food production within nearly all of Middle Earth, negotiations are bound to be difficult.</p>
<p>Then Thorin screws it all up and can only choose between execution and marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unfortunate First Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Iraya and I started this project back in May, and are happy to present it now. Please keep an eye out for violence and smut in later chapters. Things aren't quite what they seem :3
> 
> Also take a look at Iraya's amazing painting of Bilbo!

Puffy white clouds dot the sky as Thorin Oakenshield, number two in the succession to the throne of Erebor, rides with his father and a selected number of guards through a bright green field half a day’s trek outside of Rivendell. The goal of their long journey finally lies within sight; a homely house sitting in the middle of a verdant green field, lacking all defenses.

It's a hobbit house and no sane inhabitant of this part of Middle Earth would dare attack it.

The Hobbits’ Peace, as it is called, has lasted nearly four centuries now and changed everything. Not Erebor, rich in gems and precious metals is the wealthiest kingdom, nor Gondor or Rohan, each home to fierce warriors, the most powerful. No, instead the tiny, quaint Shire - which in truth is not even a kingdom at all -  may lay claim to these titles.

The mission from Erebor has traveled far when they finally lay eyes on the goal of their journey. Dale gave them their best wishes – and a copy of the latest editions of Bilbo Baggins’ book on “Etiquette for Hobbits.”

Thorin shudders. They all know the book by heart, yet the many details – like knowing what the way you hold your fork may signal – are difficult for dwarves to remember. Most in Middle Earth simply prefer to avoid dealing directly with hobbits; but Erebor needs to renegotiate their trade contract.

The old ruby mines that paid for the grain, fruit, wine, beer, and meat imported from hobbit-owned lands are beginning to yield less, while the hobbits have signalled discontent regarding the quality of the stone delivered. Naturally, Thorin is aware of the claims preposterous nature as are all in Erebor. Hobbits simply lack the dwarven appreciation of gemstones; however, as owners or managers of all produce-growing land in Erebor’s vicinity they must make their trade with them. 

King Thror hopes the hobbits will agree to a change in contract – and has sent his son and grandson out to negotiate the treaty.

“Sound the signal,” Thrain instructs one of their escort. “Let them know we have arrived.” His father sounds nervous, Thorin realizes, and then Thrain turns back to him and Thorin.

“Now, we all know that hobbits do not like to leave their Shire and it is a very welcoming gesture that they sent an emissary to meet us here,” Thrain says, not for the first time, and Thorin feels like rolling his eyes. If the hobbits had truly wanted to be welcoming, they wouldn’t have made Thrain and Thorin travel this far in the first place.

“So I expect you to remember your manners at all times.”

At the sounds of the trumpet some movement stirs in the house. Several elves step outside, armed to their teeth. 

Elves, of course it had to be elves.

Thorin’s opinion of the hobbits sinks even lower. Not only have they successfully put all of Middle Earth into their chokehold, they also know how to profit from ancient grudges and delight causing embarrassment.

“State your business,” the leader of the elves demands harshly, drawing himself up in an attempt to tower over Thrain on his pony. However, both Thrain and Thorin are tall for dwarves, so the elf’s attempt falls flat.

“Thrain, son of Thror. We have come to renegotiate our contract with the hobbit representative,” Thrain replies calmly and holds out his hand with the ring carrying his sigil.

The elf frowns a bit, before inclining his head. “Only two of you may enter, and you must leave your weapons.”

With a sinking feeling Thorin hands his weapons over to Dwalin and then submits himself to a patdown by two rather zealous elves. After this, he and his father are lead through the house and into a small backyard. Three comfortably cushioned chairs are placed around a table, the flower-patterned table cloth fluttering in the wind. An assortment of cakes, fruits and other delicacies sits waiting underneath a large umbrella that provides shade, while a hedge with colorful flowers shields the garden from view.

“Have a seat,” the elf tells Thrain and Thorin and disappears. Reluctantly, both dwarves do.

The sweets smell delicious, but Thorin knows better than to touch one before their host has made an appearance. This is likely a trap – hobbits are known to test others – and this one Thorin will pass despite his empty stomach.

“Thank you for waiting,” a clear voice announces and Thrain and Thorin surge to their feet. Clad in a luxurious black coat with a red silk cape thrown over his shoulder, a small, curly-haired man enters the garden from another doorway. He directs a flat smile at his visitors.

“It is still a little chilly, but I thought it was sunny enough to hold our meeting outside,” the hobbit continues, and under the sunlight his hair shines gold. He’s a soft, plump creature, obviously spoiled by the luxuries he and his kin have won. Even his hands are soft and scarless – he likely has never seen a fight in his life.

“I believe that is a wonderful decision,” Thrain replies, and casts a short, sharp glare into Thorin’s direction. Small talk, Thorin remembers from the etiquette book. Small talk is terribly important to hobbits - and a terrible bore to most dwarves.

“Yes,” he chokes out, and the hobbit does raise an eyebrow at him.

“Thank you very much for receiving us. I am Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, and this is my son, Thorin,” Thrain introduces them and politely inclines his head.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Thorin grits out.

The hobbit looks mildly amused. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Thrain flinches. Thorin flinches.

While the Shire may not be a kingdom and hobbit society not organised around the usual hierarchies of nobles and commoners, some Shire families are better known (richer, more powerful), than others. And the Baggins family well-known and well-positioned, being directly related to the Shire’s regent - the Thain.

If Bilbo Baggins himself made the trip, the Shire is taking these negotiations quite seriously. And Thrain and Thorin need to be twice as careful.

“Please sit,” Bilbo invites them as he moves over to primly take his seat himself. Thorin and Thrain follow suit, feeling both very strange and uncomfortable on the small, filigrane chairs. “It is quite a long journey from Erebor I believe. Did you have a chance to refresh?”

An elf comes by to bring them freshly brewed tea. The sweet aroma is unlike any blend they have in Erebor, though Thorin prefers water. Which, he finds, has also been improved by the addition of a few slices of lemon.

“We did not, but we only traveled from Rivendell today,” Thrain replies dutifully and takes a sip of his tea. “This is a lovely blend.”

Thorin wants to roll his eyes.

“Isn’t it?” Bilbo smiles, his eyes sparkling. “It’s an import from Gondor; though we usually purchase it through the elves in Rivendell. Did you enjoy their hospitality?”

Thrain’s smile grows slightly tortured. “They were most welcoming.”

Bilbo - who must know about the long and deep antipathy between elves and dwarves - has the audacity to chuckle. He probably chose this location in order to force them to stay at Rivendell!

“Well, I'm glad you enjoyed your stay, though I am certain you are missed back at home,” Bilbo comments and beckons to one of the elves standing nearby. The tray he holds, Thorin realises, has several rolls of parchment as well as writing materials. “So let us talk about the matter at hand.”

Bilbo gives his tea a last stir, before he sets cup and spoon aside, folds his hands on the table and leans forward. “I was informed,” he begins with cool smile, “that Erebor would like to change the terms of the trade contract.”

Thorin sucks in a sharp breath and steels his nerves. His father, next to him, nods politely. “We do hope the Shire is amenable to that.”

Bilbo polite smile reveals nothing. “As a matter of fact, we were thinking about a change of terms as well.”

Thrain sighs in relief. And even Thorin has to admit that he is glad they so easily overcame the first potential obstacle.

“What are the terms the Shire favours?” Thrain inquires.

Bilbo reaches for a folded document and glances at it for a short moment. “The consensus in Hobbiton is to lower the exports of meat and grain to Erebor. It is a deficitary business at the moment and Erebor’s deliveries of diamonds and jewels do not cover the cost.”

The words echo in Thorin's ear like a thunderclap. Around him birds continue to chirp and sing, a soft wind rustles through the leaves of the nearby bushes and bends the long grain stalks of the field,  and when Thrain inquires about the reason Bilbo hands him the parchment, though his voice seems to come from far away.

“The value of diamonds has depreciated a good deal. And concerning the rubies, lately some doubts as to their quality have arisen.”

A faint layer of sweat beads Thrain’s forehead as he looks over - as far as Thorin can tell - a simple calculation. His own stomach twists - the value of their precious stones gone down?

“We cannot … Erebor needs those deliveries for its continued survival,” Thrain argues softly.

Bilbo’s face remains unmoved and Thorin hates him a little more.

“I understand,” says the hobbit who likely simply doesn't care about the lives of dwarves. “Which is why we need to reach an agreement.”

Thrain nods, swallows loudly. Thorin glares at Bilbo, while the hobbit leans back. “It would help if Erebor could provide us with annual updates as to its population development. We have clauses as to this in several of our trading contracts. If the population increases by a certain percentage, both food volume and payment will be adjusted accordingly.”

What a clever way of keeping appraised of everyone’s numbers and movements, Thorin thinks.

“Maybe…” Thrain begins.

“The King will never agree to that,” Thorin argues, because the hobbits will not gain that knowledge.

Thrain bows his head. “No,” he agrees, “I expect he won't.”

“Well, I would encourage you to suggest it to him anyway,” Bilbo says lightly. “Else we may have to renegotiate sooner rather than later again.”

Avoiding that would be pleasant. Still, Thorin will not allow the hobbits to gain even more control over Erebor than they already have.

“What type of contract does Ered Luin have?” Thrain diplomatically inquires.

“Their general trading contract is based on such a percentage system,” Bilbo says evenly and takes a sip of his tea. “It has since matured quite a bit.”

Thorin wonders if their kin in Ered Luin would agree with that assessment. Especially since the Blue Mountains have never been particularly wealthy regarding precious stones.

“If I may ask, what do they trade?” Thrain asks. “Because while Erebor may be rich, paying more for the same amount of food is a hard deal to sell.”

Bilbo's lips quirk at that. “I'm perfectly aware of that,” he states. “Ered Luin renders various services to the Shire from simple home repairs, jewellery crafting, to military support. They mainly export iron and copper wares, but the majority of that is not sold to the Shire - the Shire isn't a very large market after all.”

“Erebor could deliver finished jewellery in place of raw diamonds to the Shire,” Thrain offers. Thorin frowns - the jewellers of Erebor will not like that. Already they, like most, resent having to send so much to the Shire.

Bilbo heaves a put-upon sigh, and Thorin’s fingers clench in the fabric of his trousers. “This is a potential venue but I'm well aware those finance Erebor’s trade with Gondor to a large degree. Do you have such a surplus in jewellery production?”

Thrain gulps. Thorin looks at the hobbit darkly. How easy it would be to lunge over the table - he doesn't even need a sword. That slender neck - one twist and it'd be done. Too quick for even the watching elven guards to intervene.

Bilbo folds his fingers on the table before him, daintily avoiding brushing his sleeve against the delicate plate. “Since I believe the trade in jewels is currently benefitting neither party, I wonder if there are other materials you may want to trade in.”

Thrain exhales loudly. “Mithril?”

And Thorin just snaps. Defeat is written in his father’s posture, and he refuses to allow that! They have cowered before those diminutive creatures for so long, and their demands have only grown bolder. But the dwarves of Erebor are slaves to no one. Not while Thorin lives.

“How dare you!” he shouts and surges to his feet. “Have you no scruples? No conscience stopping you? Will you ask for our lives next?”

His heart beats wildly. “Your demands are absurd, and for what? Little grain and a bit of meat for our greatest treasures? You may have pulled wool over the eyes of the rest of the world, but Erebor will not stand for this!”

The moment he stops, Thorin realises he has just ruined everything. A cold elven blade is pressed against his throat; three archers have taken aim. He's as good as dead.

His teacup and cake plate lie in shambles on the ground, Bilbo eyes him with a pinched expression, and his father’s face is stark white. In the corner of his eyes he can see two elves forcing a struggling Dwalin to the ground.

Bilbo says nothing. Then he takes a slow sip of his tea, while his eyes never leave Thorin’s. Cold and cruel they are, studying every twitch of his muscle. Probably contemplating what terrible end to sentence Thorin to.

Good. He’ll die a martyr then.

“Master Baggins, please, I understand, but he's my son, I beg you - “ Thrain starts.

Bilbo does not even look at him. “So,” he says, cutting easily through Thrain’s words and yet sounding as if idly discussing the weather. “You disagree?”

Thorin rises his head. If he is to die he’ll die proudly.

“I do!” Thorin proudly proclaims. “You hobbits hold everyone in the thrall of your terrible power! You pretend to be fair, yet you rule with cruelty and harshness! Why else would all of the world bow to you treacherous creatures!”

“I always thought starvation was cruel,” Bilbo mildly comments, not even noticing how everybody, elves and dwarves, flinch at the casual mention of their supplies. “Not supplying others with produce.”

His eyes - clever and calculating and stunning - bore into Thorin's.

“Master Baggins,” the leader of the elves speaks up. “You must set an example! Execute him on the spot and put his head on a spike!”

“I’d rather not spill blood on the begonias,” and now Bilbo looks away to gaze at the flowers. “They've only just taken root in these grounds.”

“Take me!” Thrain leaves his seat to fall to his knees before the hobbit. “Please, my son is young and foolish. Give him a chance, he will see reason. If a price must be paid, I will gladly pay it.”

“Execute them both!” another elf yells. “They spoke treason! Erebor needs sanctioning! They've obviously grown too proud in their mountain!”

Bilbo, still looking at the flowers, grimaces.

“Is there no other option?” Thrain pleads while Thorin stands his ground. He's shaken on the inside, though - forfeiting his own life for the cause he will gladly do. But risking Erebor’s food supply - the survival of thousands of dwarves - was not what he expected to gamble with.

Bilbo exhales slowly. “Due to your station and the heretofore friendly relations between Erebor and the Shire I will not see any blood spilled here. Instead, you must come with me to the Shire so the Thain may decide your fate.”

Thorin's heart sinks. The Shire is even further from Erebor - he'd rather die - but his father is bowing his head, thanking a hobbit who stares at the horizon instead and Thorin wants to scream.

Instead, the elves force him away.

* * *

 

They leave late the next morning. Thorin frowns while Bilbo indulges a hearty breakfast and has the audacity to invite them to do the same. They are his prisoners, and now he is fattening them up like pigs.

Perhaps, Thorin thinks darkly as Bilbo reaches for a beautifully red tomato, this is the hobbits’ secret. They sow the ground with the bodies of their enemies. It does fit the pattern of unexplained disappearances surrounding the Shire.

Thorin, Thrain, and Dwalin have their hands bound together. Their ponies are led by the elven guards riding with them - the rest of their escort is sent back to Erebor in a gesture of mercy.

Bilbo - as befitting of the cowardly nature of hobbits - does not lead their small company. Instead his tiny figure is framed by four elves who Thorin knows will lay down their lives for him.

He has little love for elves. But in this he wonders if they may not share an interest in shaking off the yoke of the hobbits.

“Say, Master Thorin,” an unwelcome voice cuts through Thorin’s darkening thoughts on their second day of travel. “What has my kind done to earn your hatred?”

Bilbo nudges his pony to ride alongside Thorin’s, and he wishes he could reach over and wrap his hands around that neck. But his hands are tied to the saddle.

“The depth of your grudge has me surprised, I admit. I am used to an amount of envy, distrust, or misgivings, though those can usually be worked out over the course of negotiations,” Bilbo idly chatters. “You, however - I wonder, did you have a bad experience with a hobbit?” He seems more amused than anything.

Thorin finds he can't keep his silence. “You!” he explodes sharply enough to make his pony dance nervously. “You treat everything so lightly! My people pay you in the most precious of metals the earth holds - we give you beautiful gems and the most stunning Jewel works, and yet all we receive in return is a little food. Some wine, some bread. But always we must work harder!”

Bilbo tilts his head. “You believe the pricing is off?”

When Thorin remains fuming in silence, he continues. “Well, I do not know how much effort it takes Erebor to produce these gems, so the pricing may indeed be off. This, however, is on your end entirely, and I cannot help you. The amount of produce you receive in return, that I can tell you, is actually fairly generous. We have to supply others too, and we can't eat precious stones.”

He grimaces for a moment, and then golden eyes come to rest on Thorin. “In all honesty, Master Thorin,” this tiny figure in his black coat and red silk cape comments, “we have very little use for your precious gems.”

Thorin's blood runs cold. Their most precious works - all disregarded? The effort and sweat of his kin worth nothing in the end?

“I see I have offended you again,” Bilbo comments, serious now. “I did not mean to, in that I am honest. Dwarves treasure precious stones. But to us hobbits food is far more important. I ask you to consider.”

With that he nudges his pony forward again. And Thorin, against his will realises he has just been lectured by a hobbit. A soft creature with smooth hands that have never seen battle. What right has he -

Though then, a small voice in the back of his mind wonders, what do the hobbits then do with all the precious metals and stones sent from Erebor as payment for grain and produce?

Maybe, and here Thorin's mood darkens once again, he lied.

The fits. Bilbo Baggins, he observes over the following weeks, is a sly creature. Underneath his polite smiles lurk cunning and callous calculation. Even the elves don't seem to realise it.

And his father engages in polite conversation with the hobbit nearly everyday. He's too soft, Thorin thinks, his father will never be able to drive a hard bargain. Thror should have known…

Travel proceeds much smoother with a hobbit in their group. The one group of orcs they come across abandon their attack the moment they see Bilbo, and the bandits end up hiding from them.

“They're afraid for their villages,” Thorin overhears Bilbo tell Thrain. “They probably still have families there.”

Then why, Thorin wants to yell, do the hobbits not send enough food to make sure those men do not need to turn to a life of crime in order to survive.

Around them the land turns into fields and paddocks. Small, cozy houses sit atop green, rolling hills and overhead fluffy white clouds chase across a deep blue sky on a warm summer’s breeze.

It's disgustingly picturesque.

Evil, Thorin remembers, often takes the form of beauty. This then, must show terrible evil.

The people working the fields in the distance are men, not hobbits, he realises. His father also takes note of them.

“Men?” he asks of Bilbo. “I thought only hobbits could make things grow?”

“They help,” Bilbo replies. “We … could not supply all of Arda if we only relied on the work of our hands, could we?” He chuckles.

But a good part of the question remains unanswered. And Thrain, unlike Thorin, has the good sense to leave it at that.

They make station in a small town called Bree that night. For its fame - gateway to the hobbits’ domain, central place for negotiations, it's surprisingly quaint. Most houses are built from wood, people dress in cloth of quality but not splendor. Dale, Thorin thinks, is far more impressive than this tiny village is.

At the following morning they actually set out early in order to make the rest of the trip within a day. Thick fog encompasses them the moment they leave the village - and now Bilbo does take the lead.

“This part is tricky,” he comments toward the elves who are reluctant to allow him to the front. “Once you know the road it's easy to find, but more than one person has gotten lost in the downs or the forest trying. It's tricky like that.”

He laughs, and his black outline in the white fog appears eerie, otherworldly. There must be magic here, Thoron thinks with a shudder. Evil magic protecting the hobbits’ realm - even his pony is nervous.

As they make their way forward, he thinks he sees shapes moving in the fog. Hears voices calling - but when he turns to look, they have vanished.

Only later, as the sun begins to rise higher, the shapes clear into the form of old, gnarled trees. Their leaves seem nearly black, their trunks broad and twisted. No forest near Erebor looks this ancient - another trace of the hobbits’ magic, then.

When they emerge, many hours later, it is to find a broad gurgling river crossed by a broad stone bridge. A mill sits a few miles downstream, and once they have crossed the water, they have entered the Shire.

Something cold runs down Thorin’s spine. It's as if the road just closed behind him and all hopes for a sudden turn of events now have failed.

It's forfeit then. Whatever happens to his father, to Dwalin, to him - to Erebor - is now all up to these hobbits.

They see very few of them as they make their way onwards. Some look up from comfortable rocking chairs in their gardens, dressed fancily and smoking pipes. What a luxury this leisure must be, Thorin thinks and anger coils in his stomach once again.

Once they come across a child. A young girl who is dragged toward their home by her mother who is deaf - coldly deaf - to the child's pleas to leave her be.

Of course, Thorin thinks with ice in his veins, few beings are born evil. Hobbits must teach their children from early on. And from the looks of it, they treat their progeny as callously as they treat their trading partners.

* * *

 

“Hello Bilbo, my boy,” an elderly lady greets them as they finally come to a stop before another of those houses melded into a hill. “Gerontius waits for you in his study, but I think you should all have a bite first! Look at you, you've grown thin!”

“Grandmother,” Bilbo greets warmly and enfolds her in a hearty embrace. Thorin, Thrain, Dwalin, and their elven entourage remain respectfully in the background until the hobbits disentangle themselves.

“We must speak with grandfather immediately, but I’m certain our companions will enjoy some refreshments in the meantime,” Bilbo replies apologetically and the lady’s face grows solemn.

“Very well,” she agrees. And with a few decisive words the group is split. The elves are lead away to waiting refreshments, while Thorin, his father, Dwalin, Bilbo and his grandmother all proceed into the smial. Thorin studies the gold and diamond-studded doorknobs with growing displeasure. Exquisite carpets line the ground, and his stomach drops further when he realizes the chandelier is made of mithril.

Trust hobbits not to treat this precious metal with the respect it deserves. Savages, Thorin thinks, barbarians.

Because as rich and finely made everything in the smial is, it feels like an afterthought. As if those beautiful sapphires and emeralds don’t matter and had only been used due to the lack of an alternative. It makes Thorin’s blood boil.

Eventually they find themselves in a cozy sitting room with. The armchairs have fantastically welded golden legs with rubies, are decked out with exquisite silk pillows, and the tea comes in fine china cups. The Thain - Bilbo’s grandfather - listens attentively to Bilbo retell the tale. His eyes, surrounded by many wrinkles but clever and quick, watch the dwarves shift uneasily.

Even Thorin has to cringe when he is reminded of his outburst. A part of him is angry at himself. Another part holds more anger at the hobbits for forcing him into this situation. If he is to die, then he will die for a noble cause, so that perhaps one day his kin may be able to cut ties entirely.

“This is a most unfortunate development,” the Thain laments, eyes wandering from Bilbo to Thrain, to Thorin, and then back to Thrain. “While this could be solved by punishing the sole culprit alone, I do understand your feelings on the matter. Indeed, I do not think an execution proper at this point.”

Thrain nods emphatically, shoulders already sinking with relief. Thorin waits for the other shoe to drop.

“However, with the rules being what they are, and the situation to the east being what it is, word by now will have spread. Outside of the Shire your son won’t be safe.”

Thrain pales. And Thorin abruptly realizes that he landed himself in far deeper trouble than he expected. With the strength of the hobbits’ magic unknown and the great reliance on their produce of every village, kingdom, and single individual in all of Arda - they will vie with each other to be the first to present the Thain with Thorin’s head.

The fact that he is heir to the throne of Erebor barely even matters.

“But no outsiders are allowed to stay in the Shire,” Thrain weakly protests.

Bilbo, with a death grip on his teacup now, nods. His expression is strangely concerned, and now dread blossoms in Thorin’s stomach.

The Thain hums, looks at Thorin appraisingly. “There is … an alternative that would negate the need for any punishment at all.”

“Oh,” the Thain’s wife, comments, eyes widening. “Of course.”

“No!” Bilbo protests abruptly. “Who would even -”

“Only the offended party, I believe,” the Thain replies evenly.

“I refuse!” Bilbo shouts, and this is the first time Thorin has seen him lose his temper. It’s not nearly as spectacular as Thorin’s own outburst - instead of throwing it, Bilbo sets his teacup firmly down and remains seated despite the two red spots of color now on his cheek. “Grandfather, you can’t make me -”

“Do you want to see him dead?” his grandmother asks sharply. “You know it is the only alternative. And I think your tempers might be quite well-matched.” Bilbo stiffens under her glare and looks away, lips glued firmly together.

Somewhere outside, a bell rings, high and clear.

“It would be a fortunate, too,” the Thain adds tentatively. “We have … neglected to tie ourselves closer to the people we are dealing with. The rumors told about us hobbits are outrageous, and I would rather know before those rumors result in somebody starving.”

"I understand," Bilbo hisses and crosses his arms over his chest. A shadow passes over the Thain's face and for a moment he seems about to reach out, but then thinks better of it.

"It is appreciated," he says to Bilbo, before returning his attentive gaze to Thrain and Thorin. He claps his hand together, gives them a pale smile, and asks: "Would you be agreeable?"

Thorin blinks in utter confusion, and his father looks similarly mystified. “Excuse me,” Thrain meekly stammers. “But what is this solution?”

For a moment only the faint echo of bells, bird song and rustling leaves from the outside fill the cozy sitting room.

“Marriage,” the Thain says and looks to Thrain with a gentle, comforting smile that turns Thorin’s stomach. “Your son would have to marry my grandson, which would make his tantrum legitimate, and negate the need for any punishment in consequence.”

Dizziness rises in Thorin’s chest; the room blurs. Marriage?

“It would also, I believe, aid the connection between Erebor and the Shire,” the Thain is saying as Thorin’s fingers first in the fabric of his trousers.

Thrain, pale still, nods in contemplation and Thorin wants to scream. He can’t mean to agree - he can’t! Thorin needs to be King of Erebor one day! He can’t live in the Shire!

(But he does have a sister and a brother who could rule Erebor as well, if not better, once the day comes, a treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispers).

“If that is the only option,” Thrain says hesitantly, his head already bowed.

The Thain grimaces. “That or regardless of what we decide today, your son will die.”


	2. A Marriage of Convenience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite neither Thorin nor Bilbo actually willing to marry, they both recognize the necessity to take that step. And their environment keeps encouraging them to make the best of things - whatever this may turn out to be...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful response to the previous chapter!  
> Now, I do hope the next one will be just as entertaining - we do get Bilbo and Thorin bashing heads and getting married after all. Also, [iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com) drew a cute picture of [Thorin and Bilbo trying to have a civil discussion](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/150281965587/of-growing-things-thorin-accompanies-his-father). :3

Bilbo excuses himself after that, stiffly almost-stomping from the room, his grandmother follows immediately, and Thorin wishes he could do the same. Yet should he dare to throw a tantrum here, who knows what will happen? His father and him executed on the spot and Erebor boycotted forevermore? Thorin’s fingers clench in the fabric of his trousers and he remains on his seat. 

“Excuse my grandson,” the Thain says with a sigh and turns his eyes from the closed door back to the two dwarves. “I promise he well understands the necessity.”

Thrain nods, pale-faced. “He has my gratitude.”

No, Thorin wants to scream, no. For a wild moment he wonders if this couldn't all be resolved if Bilbo refused the marriage. None could blame Thorin - but the offense he caused during negotiations would remain unamended. And all between Harad and Bree would hunt for Thorin’s head to win the hobbits’ favor, while Erebor would lose most of its grain supply.

Thorin forced the anger bubbling in his chest down, crosses his arms before his chest, and listens numbly as his father and the Thain fix a date for the wedding.

Bilbo does not return. His grandmother does, an elderly hobbit with a kind face and twinkling eyes. She invites Thrain, Thorin, and Dwalin to stay for dinner, turning the conversation to pleasant and meaningless things. Like magic, the atmosphere shifts, and before Thorin has quite grasped what is happening, he is following the group toward a warmly lit dining room where the decadent dishes await on gold-lined china. 

“Thorin, dear boy,” a bright voice breaks his contemplations and Thorin finds that the Thain’s wife has silently snuck up on him. Uneasy from the too-familiar address and her assessing gaze, Thorin squirms and acknowledges her with a short nod.

“I know these aren’t the best of circumstances and I can tell you are reluctant to enter that bond,” she says quietly as ahead Thrain and the Thain chatter about one thing or another. The hairs on Thorin’s back begin to stand; the situation doesn’t feel right. 

“But as you are going to be a member of the family, I do hope we can make you feel welcome at some point,” she continues idly, tugging her silver-trimmed silk scarf up over her shoulders. Like Bilbo, Thorin thinks, she is small - and yet radiates confidence and power. “You have a right to be upset - this is not an ideal solution, though I am afraid it is indeed the best we have for the time being.”

He wants to protest, yet finds his tongue tied. The non-committal noise that leaves his lips, however, apparently suffices.

Her lips quirk, and her eyes crinkle as she turns a warm smile onto Thorin. “So please don’t take it personal if dear Bilbo is being obstinate - he understands the situation, and he - as we all - will try to make the best of it.”

“Adamanta,” the Thain calls over, “Didn’t we get Dorwinion wine delivered last month? Do you know where -”

Thorin stops listening. His mind whirs with discontent: it is simple for Adamanta Took to declare they are all making the best of the situation. The truth is that the dwarves will have to go along with whatever the hobbits deem to be the best. 

* * *

After dinner has been finished, Thrain, Thorin and Dwalin are lead to an empty hobbit home a few hills over and given leave to move as they please. The place is pleasant; small compared to Erebor, yet filled to the brim with frivolous luxuries like marble bathtubs, silken bedsheets, and a whole cupboard filled with exotic spices. Missing, though, are the servants - but they all are too tired to make sense of that detail and retire to their sleeping rooms within moments of arriving at their temporary abode.

Thorin finds himself staring at the bed in his room. Only the moon provides a silvery light, and the silk sheets glow faintly. His mind races - only this morning he was dreading what the day would bring, hoping to solve this episode and return to his life in Erebor.

Now he is engaged to a hobbit. And won’t return to his life in Erebor. 

“ _...try to make the best of it _ ,” Admanta Took’s words echo mockingly. But how can he, how can he if this is a nightmare come true, and there is nothing good about it, nothing - 

Thorin closes his eyes. Sits himself down on the bed, takes a deep breath. Feels the exhaustion crawling in his veins. 

Despair will have to wait, he decides. Sleep will come first. Maybe tomorrow they will find another solution.

* * *

They don’t. 

Dwalin, Thrain, and Thorin don’t leave the house at all. Instead they sit and think, turning over every option, law, or myth they ever heard. Yet the marriage cannot be avoided, not if Thorin wants to live (and for all his confidence that he could make it on the run, at least for a good while, the pain in his father’s eye gives him pause). 

Bilbo makes an appearance in the afternoon. He has the air of someone who doesn't want to be there at all. However, his face is a polite mask. 

“Is everything here to your likening?” he asks, surreptitiously glancing around the smial’s entrance hall. Looking for damage, Thorin bitterly guesses.

“Quite lovely in fact,” Thrain answers. Thorin crosses his arms before his chest; Dwalin vanished into one of the back rooms the moment the knock came.

“I'm glad to hear that,” Bilbo says. “If you need anything, just call one of the runners - you can usually find them near the market.”

“Runners?” Thrain asks, tilting his head.

“Young hobbits. I suppose Erebor employs servants like they do in Ered Luin?” Bilbo waits for Thrain to give a short nod before continuing his explanation. “Well, the Shire has a different system. Depending on the job needing to be done we either hire local or external specialists or get a runner.”

“And all young hobbits are runners?” Thrain asks, his voice mirroring the bewilderment Thorin feels. Do hobbits make their children work?

“Mostly,” Bilbo replies, and seeing the horror on their faces he catches the mistake. “But young hobbits are not children. Runners are only those in their tweens who completed their basic education and get to experience various fields of work by doing the runner jobs.”

“So it's a sort of apprenticeship?” Thrain guesses. 

“A little, perhaps. Some start apprenticeships after having worked as a runner, others don't work as a runner at all,” Bilbo explains.

“Have you worked as a runner?” Thorin demands abruptly. He can't imagine Bilbo - who has no scratch on his skin, no scar on his fingers - to have ever done a hard day’s work in his life.

Bilbo’s lips thin. “I did,” he replies, “And found it rather helpful since by the time I took over for my father I had a fairly good idea of how things worked beyond the narrow scope of the family business.”

Thorin huffs, but his father quickly intercedes. “That does sound like a fascinating custom,” Thrain says. “Though if you do have a moment, there were a few things we were wondering about regarding the marriage…”

Thorin’s stomach twists. “Excuse me,” he mumbles and leaves the room while his father and the hobbit discuss marriage traditions.

He finds Dwalin in the adjoining kitchen, food in hand, axe on his lap.

Thorin's lips twitch. “Lend me that?” he asks.

Dwalin sighs. “You'd make a mess of it.” 

“I know, Dwalin, I know,” Thorin sighs, and then sinks down on one of the polished chairs himself. “Why did grandfather even allow me to go on that mission?” His temper, after all, hadn't been a secret.

Dwalin shrugs. “Who could've known that the hobbits would send a prat?” 

Thorin snorts, then leans back and allows his eyes to close. He's exhausted; wishes he could just go home and sleep it all off. 

From outside he can hear the faint trickle of conversation between his father and the hobbit, notes of a birdsong carry through the window, and green trees rustle. It's utterly unlike Erebor and its halls filled with the steady thrum of the deep forges, the firm echo of footsteps, and the clear notes of its bells. 

“How do we get out of this?” Thorin rhetorically demands of the universe.

“Thorin,” Dwalin says, and something in his voice makes Thorin open his eyes and look at his old friend. “Look, I know this situation is pretty terrible, and I don't know how we’re getting out of it. But not knowing it now doesn't mean you'll be stuck here forever. Maybe Thror can work out another solution, maybe we can kidnap you away, or you get a divorce - just don't give up. We’ll get you home.” 

Thorin’s heart warms. He takes a deep breath, allows the tension in his shoulders to evaporate. “You're right,” he says, and hopes Dwalin hears his apology for being a grouch in those words, too.

Dwalin’s lips twitch into a toothy smile. “Aye, I am. And I know Baggins is a right prat and you'd love to wring his neck, but seriously, don't,” he says. “We’ll get you out, and I don't know, maybe you can get that secret of hobbit magic from him in the meantime.”

“Eh, I don't know…” Thorin mutters. He understands the necessity - knowing the hobbits’ secret could even help shaking off their yoke. But gaining Bilbo Baggins’ trust…

Dwalin apparently has followed his thoughts. “Just don't kill him on your wedding day. Or after.”

* * *

The following day, the three dwarves decide to venture outside. After all, Dwalin reasons “it can’t get worse than this”.

“We could always find a hobbit to marry for you, too,” Thorin replies spitefully. 

Dwalin pales. “But I already have a One.”

Thorin casts a glare at the sunny blue sky. “I doubt the hobbits would care.”

They follow one of the many small paths, winding up and down over lush green hills and past blooming bushes, but meet only few hobbits on the way. The buildings they pass are simple - not grand palaces or sprawling castles like one finds in the cities of men, or the intricate underground caverns dwarves hold dear. If anything, it rather seems like hobbits are hiding their homes, building them into the hillsides like burrows. Quaint and homely in their architecture, yet the Shire’s wealth cannot be missed. Doorknobs cut from rubies, emeralds or sapphires. Window frames welded of silver and gold, and marble plates put onto the ground of outside patios. Lace curtains flutter in the wind, diamonds sparkle in flower beds and form a riot of colors so bright Thorin wonders if they are not a work of magic.

A pleasantly warm sun lights the day, makes even the water of the gurgling streams glitter, and soon the three dwarves catch voices on the wind. Light chimes, laughter, and the smell of exotic spices drift by; as they turn a bend they find a small market sitting on a lawn next to the stream.

Under colorful linen and silk sheets vendors have laid out their wares on dark wooden tables - some even covered under rich brocade blankets. Intrigued, though uneasy, the three wander closer, and while a few hobbits glance their way, most simply ignore them.

The market is very unlike its larger sisters in Erebor or Dale - no stall carries more than a sample of the wares on sale. Rather, Thrain observes, the hobbits choose from the samples, and then have the wares delivered directly to their home.

“Oh, so which one of you is it?” a sharp voice pierces through their observations and the three dwarves turn to watch a hobbit lady, clad in exotic fabrics, colorful feathers, and sparkling gems - probably half a year’s worth of rubies from Erebor - strides toward them. She eyes them like dirt; Thorin feels his face heat.

“The one-eyed one, baldie, or grumpy-face?” She huffs, stopping right in their path. 

Several heads turn, and Thorin shifts in discomfort under the scrutiny.

“I believe we haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Thrain replies mildly.

Somebody in the background hastily covers a laugh with a cough and the female hobbit stiffens. 

“No,” she replies haughtily. “It would truly be too much to expect savages to know who I am, or to expect my cousin to remedy that. He’s kept the company of savages for too long! I shall be having words with him shortly,” she declares. “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. I expect you to remember it.” She inclines her head minutely, enough to make the complicated arrangement of feathers, diamonds, and fabrics pinned to her hair sway.

“Miss…” Thrain begins, but she ignores him. 

“The Shire is no place for dwarves,” she huffs instead, by some passing hobbits slow their steps. Thorin can feel their eyes - sharp and assessing - turn to him, and they must find the three dwarves quite lacking. Their rough travel clothes - regardless of the fine stitching and rich furs - look simple compared to the colorful Shire silks and shining fabrics. 

“Bilbo should not have brought you here,” she continues. “I suppose it is fitting he has to deal with the mess he caused, but it is terrible that we all should suffer for it. Had it been me, I would have seen the affairs settled swiftly and -”

“Lobelia, I see you have already met my intended,” Bilbo Baggins interrupts cheerfully, striding into the market square in his black ensemble, though today’s silk cape is green, not red. He smiles pleasantly, but it does not reach his eyes, and his focus rests firmly on Lobelia.

“Bilbo,” Lobelia greets in a sickly-sweet tone that sends a shudder down Thorin’s spine. 

“And I believe we’ve discussed our different business strategies quite frequently,” Bilbo continues lightly, nods politely toward the three dwarves. “As a matter of fact, I would like to ask your input on the recent iron sales to the east - I believe there should be a better solution. Would you accompany me for a moment?”

So with a last glare toward the dwarves and a no less poisonous expression directed towards her cousin, Lobelia walks off.

Thrain sighs in relief, and once they are back in their temporary home and the door has been securely shut behind them, the crown prince to Erebor sinks down at the table. 

“I’m so sorry, Thorin,” he murmurs. “So sorry for getting you into this.”

Thorin, now even less in love with the perspective of spending the rest of his life in the Shire, sits down on the chair next to his father. 

“I brought this onto myself,” he mumbles. If he only had kept his temper in check…

“Maybe we can arrange something,” Thrain continues, a sense of hope creeping back into his tone. “Once the ceremony is done. Maybe some… escape, or something.”

Thorin says nothing. Escaping - even if Bilbo himself would not care - would still harm Erebor.

* * *

Come next morning, Bilbo himself puts in another appearance. 

“I apologize for my cousin yesterday,” he begins pleasantly. Today, he wears a blue silk cape that matches the sky. “She sometimes forgets that orcish business manners sound quite odd for those uninvolved.”

Thorin glares.

Thrain clears his throat. “It is rather remarkable that hobbits have achieved a binding contract with the orcs after all.” Not to say that this power over orcs is what makes all of Middle Earth envy and fear them.

Bilbo laughs lightly. “Well, everybody needs to eat.”

Sauron, Thorin thinks, was never a danger to Middle Earth. They all thought he was, and nobody paid attention to the hobbits. And in their blindness, the hobbits took over. No magic ring could ever attained this degree of power over all, no magic ring could have forced men and Orc and dwarf and elf to bend knee.

Bilbo, who probably himself could easily order entire countries wiped out, casts a seemingly harmless smile to Thorin. “I have to be on my way, but I wanted to ask you, Thorin, if you don’t have other appointments, would you mind joining me for dinner tonight?”

* * *

“Thank you for coming,” Bilbo greets as he opens the door for Thorin quite a bit later than initially agreed upon. But Thorin got lost twice trying to find the correct home - and he doesn’t want to think about that this will become his home, soon.

It won’t, he resolves for himself as he steps through the low doorway and observes the polished floors, the invaluable knicknacks - he has to stop and double take, because yes, the picture frames are made from mithril. And that coat hanger is solid gold. 

His home will always be Erebor. He already detests this place. 

He grunts a greeting  in Bilbo’s direction, and the hobbits’ smile grows a little cooler. 

“Dinner is this way,” Bilbo directs. He is dressed less ostentatiously, Thorin thinks as he follows him, though the red waistcoat is pure silk and both it and the white shirt beneath are tailored to perfection.

Within a richly decorated dining hall, only the silver hinges probably keep the table from bending under the weight of several, delicious dishes. Thorin’s stomach is moved despite himself, for he has never smelled such delicate, exotic spices. 

“Please, sit and help yourself,” Bilbo invites him and Thorin decides to do just that. They may be engaged, but he doesn't have any inclination to spend more time than necessary with this deceptive hobbit - it's his fault Thorin is in this mess after all.

Thorin doesn't speak a word as they eat. Bilbo glances to him from time to time, but remains silent until dessert as well. 

When a large plate of colorful cakes and biscuits has been set on the table, Bilbo leans back in his chair. “I would like to discuss our wedding,” he announces.

Thorin grimaces, eyes the floor instead. “If we must.”

“You may find it helpful in order to avoid an incident similar to the one that caused this,” Bilbo replies tersely.

The sweet flavour in his mouth turns to ash. “How much worse can it get?”

Bilbo's face grows expressionless. “Death,” he replies as he takes a sip of his tea. “And the trading contract the Thain just signed would immediately become invalid.” 

Thorin freezes at that. “You can't threaten my people! Not over our marriage!” 

Bilbo idly sets his teacup down and looks at Thorin, his golden eyes hard. “Well,” he says. “I'm not. But if you - as an official representative of Erebor threaten me in my function as a representative of the Shire we have to consider future interactions with Erebor in the light of how much risk they pose to us.”

“But I'm not here as a representative, am I?” Thorin spits. “I'm here as your future husband.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agrees with just as much venom. “An unfortunate development you caused all on your own.” 

Thorin sputters with rage. He can't even find the words to protest before Bilbo presses on. “So lest your actions cause further misfortune, I ask you to consider how you are going to act in your role. Because while you may not be an official representative I can promise you that the relations between Erebor and the Shire will hinge on how our marriage developes.”

“That's,” Thorin yells, “that's inane! Our marriage should have nothing to do with it!”

Bilbo shrugs. “In a perfect world. This is the way it works in this world.” 

Thorin grunts and folds his arms across his chest. Bilbo sighs in exasperation. Neither has anything to say, but Thorin can’t leave, and Bilbo is already home. The hobbit eventually reaches up to massage his brow.

“Do you have a favourite flower? Color?” Bilbo asks, looking into space as if recalling some list.

“Blue is the color of Durin. I'm a dwarf. We don't care for flowers.”

“Alright. Food allergies?”

Like this they work their way through a long checklist that bores Thorin out of his mind. At the end he only wants to shout at Bilbo to do whatever he wants - it's not as if Thorin wants to marry him.

Bilbo frowns at him. “This is not about what either of us want. This is to keep you alive and your kin from starving.”

Thorin is ready to strangle him. “So why are you doing it?” he gripes, and then an unholy idea appears to him. “You're taking me hostage. Me being here means Erebor will have to comply with your every whim!”

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “You mean in the way we have abused the grain supply to make Erebor fight our wars for us?”

“No, I mean the way you hobbits can force any whim onto all of Middle Earth and expect it to be obeyed,” Thorin snipes back. “Because  _ everybody needs to eat _ .”

Bilbo stiffens and Thorin sees with dark satisfaction how the pleasant mask slips. Golden eyes glare at him with cool calculation, and then Bilbo’s lips curl into an unpleasant smirk. “Yes,” he agrees, “They do. But that is not our fault, is it?”

Thorin’s grip tightens around the fork in his hand. Had it not been made from mithril, it would have shattered long ago. “You’re not -”

Bilbo interrupts him with a sharp gesture. “Do you truly believe,” he says with cruel amusement, “that I would be marrying you if I could bend all of Middle Earth to my whim?”

“Then don’t!” Thorin shouts, and throws the plate and the cutlery down. It bounces on the table, cake crumbs flying over the colorful table cloth. “Call the marriage off, and we’ll both be happier for it!”

“You’d die.”

“I rather would die than marry you!” Thorin exclaims heatedly.

Bilbo visibly reigns himself in. The angry wrinkles smooth out, and he manages to calm his expression. “How unlucky I have a conscience,” he bemoans to the universe and Thorin’s fingers itch to wrap themselves around his neck.

Then golden eyes return to Thorin. “Regrettably it seems neither of us will get our wish,” Bilbo declares icily. “I do not know how you do it in Erebor, but I consider the Thain’s words binding. And I will fulfill the duty I have to the Shire.”

Fuming, Thorin presses his lips together. 

“Will you do the same for Erebor?” Bilbo asks. 

Thorin forces the anger down. “I will.”    


* * *

After that disastrous dinner Thorin and Bilbo do not meet again, not even for the signing of their marriage and all related contracts. Thorin's mood over the following days is so black even Dwalin keeps his distance and Thrain looks at Thorin with pain in his eyes. His repeated apologies eventually force Thorin to let go of the anger in his chest. 

But he doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive the hobbits. Not when they have ruined his life. 

“Maybe I should run,” he contemplates loudly to Dwalin on the eve before the wedding. “Enjoy life while I can. I doubt things will improve here.”

Dwalin sighs. “I’d help you if I could. But chances are, the moment you run everyone between Bree and Dale will put a price on your head to assuage the hobbits. They have us all in a chokehold, Thorin.”

They should have never allowed the hobbits to rise to power.

“Did we receive word from Erebor?” he asks instead.

Dwalin shrugs. “Dis is angry she wasn’t invited. Frerin asked to be sent a basket of Southfarthing wine as a wedding gift. Your grandfather wrote a statement about looking forward to closer ties between the Shire and Erebor.”

Of course, Thorin thinks, to Thror the union between him and Bilbo means an increase in Erebor’s status. Despite having always been prosperous and mighty, Erebor has since been second to the Shire. Thror has since looked to restore Erebor to its former glory, and perhaps this marriage can be used to that end. 

A small kernel of hope alights in Thorin’s chest. As the Shire gains a pawn in him, he can take his time to try and learn the hobbits’ secrets and weaknesses and expose them to the world. 

* * *

On the morning of the marriage ceremony Thorin stares at his reflection in disdain. Decked out in unfamiliar, luxurious garb the person looking back at him is a stranger. Barely even recognizable as a dwarf. His boots have been made from soft, dark leather, decorated with delicate silver stitching and mithril brooches. His trousers are cut from black brocade, the same as his overcoat, but lacking the detailed needlework. A blue silk shirt goes underneath, paired with a black waistcoat, its buttons, again, cut from mithril.

Thorin detests that the hobbits so carelessly use this most precious of all metals. Mithril is for crowns and beads, not for buttons, picture frames, and cutlery.

“You look good,” Thrain tells him as Thorin leaves his room, dressed. He has braided his own mithril beads into his hair - at a dwarven wedding those beads are exchanged with the partner, but to Thorin keeping his beads constitutes a small act of rebellion. Because to him this marriage is meaningless.

A sharp knock on the door reminds them it is time to go. An unfamiliar hobbit greets them, clad in a formal, beautifully cut black coat. 

“Are you ready to go?” the hobbit who introduced himself as Fortinbras Took inquires.

Fortinbras leads them along winding little paths, past colourful yards and richly decorated porches. As quaint as those hobbit homes are, they do not lack in riches. Around them the neighbourhood grows more crowded. Many hobbits nod toward Fortinbras and the three dwarves accompanying him, and Thrain somewhat awkwardly returns the greetings. 

“You should try to be friendly with them,” Thrain whispers to Thorin as Fortinbras stops to chat with a particular important-looking hobbit. “At least with Master Baggins. He might not be quite so bad.”

The protest on Thorin’s lips is smothered as the important-looking hobbit turns to the dwarves 

“A wonderful morning to you, too, good Masters,” he says cheerfully and the sapphires pinned to this collar bob with the movement. “Fair weather like this must be a good sign!” 

“We most certainly hope so,” Thrain diplomatically declares. 

“Aye, right,” the hobbit comments loudly. “You mountain folks didn't like being outside much, did you? That's why you send all those pretty stones… I wonder do you get sunburned?” 

Thorin bristles already at the inane questions.  Luckily Fortinbras interferes. “Lovely questions, Rufus, and I believe Master Thorin will gladly chat with you later, but now we must really be off.”

“Better not keep dear Bilbo waiting,” Rufus cheerfully comments. “Lad’s been a bachelor for far too long.”

“Indeed, Rufus, indeed,” Fortinbras nods. “And hopefully this Union will help settle a few other things, too.”

Rufus grimaces. “Hopefully.”

Thorin's interest has surged, but the hobbits don't expand on what sounds like terrible plans. Instead they wave each other goodbye in good humor and part ways.

“I'm afraid I don't quite know who we just spoke to?” Thrain politely interjects. 

“Rufus Burrows,” Fortinbras replies, as they turn another corner and arrive on a wide square. A large tree covered in colorful lampions and glittering ornaments (and it pains Thorin to think that these are likely made from real gemstones) casts shadow over most of the lawn which is filled by rows and rows of chairs. A bit further, on a sandy square sit benches cut from smooth wood and covered with lush pillows and gold and blue table clothes. 

“He handles the gemstone trade to the south,” Fortinbras says and then is distracted by another hobbit waving to them. Thrain visibly stops himself from asking another question - one that occurs to Thorin, too.

Why on earth are the hobbits selling gemstones to the south? The dwarves quite firmly have that region covered - after all it’s easier to sell from Erebor to Gondor than via the long way across the Shire.

Likely, Thorin thinks and crosses his arms across his chest, they’re using the stones as another trick to keep Middle Earth under their control.

“Thank you for bringing them here, Fortinbras,” a familiar voice cuts through Thorin’s gloomy thoughts, and he looks over to see Bilbo clap Fortinbras on the shoulder. The other hobbit draws him into a short hug, and then nods at Bilbo.

“Not a problem. You look good, cousin,” he looks Bilbo up and down. And in his black and blue ensemble Bilbo does cut an impressive figure. The colors match Thorin’s, the cut of Bilbo’s shirt and jacket is impeccable. Golden stitches line the collar of Bilbo’s shirt, and the same flowery pattern is mirrored, only larger, on the cape he wears across one shoulder. Keeping it from sliding off is a golden chain, decorated with shining sapphires. In the spring sun, his hair shines gold, too.

He looks stunning. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo greets coolly, “Master Thrain, Master Dwalin. It is good to see you. I hope you have been settling well.”

“Quite fine, thank you, Master Baggins,” Thrain replies meekly. 

“Please call me Bilbo,” Thorin’s to-be-husband replies with a smile that is so wrong Thorin wants to wipe it off Bilbo’s face. “We’re about to be in-laws after all.”

Thrain chuckles, the sound just as grating. “Well, then you must call me Thrain.”

Thorin’s eyes stray to Dwalin who watches everything with an utterly frozen expression that betrays nothing. It’s not unlike the look Thorin recalls Dwalin wearing when he first started guarding the royal family during diplomatic visits.  

And despite the private note that this has gained, it still is a diplomatic mission, Thorin thinks darkly. His lifelong diplomatic mission. 

“Uncle Bilbo!” a young voice shouts.

Hobbits and dwarves turn to see a young hobbit, dressed in bright green silks decorated with silver and emeralds run across the lawn. His bright smile doesn’t match his formal clothes at all - and from the corner of his eye Thorin watches something like a honest emotion flicker across Bilbo’s face.

“Frodo, my boy, what is it?”

The boy almost slams into Bilbo’s legs. While he manages to stop, he still smacks the two cases he is carrying into Bilbo’s hip, nearly dislodging the perfectly arranged outfit. “Mama said you forgot these.”

For a split moment a grimace crosses Bilbo’s face. Then he takes the boxes and smiles at the young boy. “Your mama is absolutely right. Thank you!”

“Great! I’m going to find Merry and Pip!” And with that he races off again. 

Bilbo looks after him for a second, and Thorin wonders what he is thinking. The air about him has gained something wistful - though when Bilbo turns and faces Thorin with his usual polite determination, Thorin guesses his impression was wrong. 

“I have something for you, Thorin,” Bilbo says as he holds out the boxes. They are plain, but well-made. Jewelry cases, Thorin guesses, and his stomach twists. He doesn’t want to marry this hobbit - yet with every breath he takes that outcome grows ever more inevitable. Already he is far too deep.

“The custom is to wear flower crowns at hobbit weddings,” Bilbo explains, ignorant of the turmoil in Thorin’s chest. “As you are no hobbit, I thought having a flower crown fashioned from gemstones might be a fitting compromise. I hope you don’t mind that I picked the flowers in the crown for you.”

Thorin dimly recalls a distant lesson on the value of flowers to hobbits. And how they are a language onto themselves; one of the highest finesses of hobbit mannerism. But all Thorin can do once the black case opens is gasp and marvel at the intricate work before him. 

It is likely one of the most gorgeous crowns Thorin has ever seen. Tiny, beautifully cut diamonds sparkle in the sunlight; emeralds and gold are melded to mirror thick leaves and ivy ranks forming a circlet. Set on it are a myriad of smaller and larger flowers made from rubies, sapphires, yellow diamonds and mithril. 

One of these alone is worth enough to ransom a kingdom. 

Thorin realizes that the second, yet unopened box Bilbo has, must hold the second crown. 

“Will you wear it?” Bilbo asks. 

Thorin can’t place his tone at all. There might be genuine hope in his voice, some sort of true emotion. But Bilbo’s face remains closed off, caught in its polite smile. 

Whatever Thorin feels or wants - it’s not as if he has a choice, he abruptly recalls. “Yes,” he replies curtly. 

Bilbo nods. “Would you hold this for a moment?” he ask Thrain and hands over the jewelry cases. Thorin sees his father stiffen - no dwarf can look at these and not appreciate the masterful craftsmanship that went into their production. 

“These are beautiful,” Thrain comments as Bilbo takes the first crown out and lifts it. Thorin belatedly realizes that he is much too tall for Bilbo to reach, so he awkwardly bows his head. 

“Thank you,” Bilbo replies and gently places the crown on Thorin’s head. It’s not even uncomfortable or heavy - another testament to the mastery involved. “We first got the idea when a mission from Ered Luin came to visit - my parents had the bases for these made then. But they fell out of fashion shortly. I only remembered when the … marriage was agreed upon, and thought it fitting.”

Bilbo quirks a small smile in Thrain’s direction, but nobody missed his earlier pause. As Thorin straightens, he takes a close look at his future husband. He is not very tall or impressive at all, though his hair shines like gold under the sun and small laugh lines form on his face when he speaks. 

Thrain moves into Thorin’s direction, holding out the second box, and Thorin remembers that he is supposed to return the action. His heart cries out in protest, but this time he keeps his emotions in check. With steady hands he opens the second box and takes a moment to marvel at the other crown.

It’s a masterfully and intricately designed as the first, though different. Both are utterly unique in this world, Thorin thinks as he takes it from its case. 

“It’s a good choice,” Thrain commends as Thorin carefully places the crown on Bilbo’s curls. His hands brush over hair that is surprisingly soft and this close he can smell a hint of pipeweed and honey on Bilbo. It’s gentle, and when Bilbo looks up at him, the crown on his head, and smiles for a moment Thorin finds himself looking at a mirage.

Bilbo’s smile is soft and gentle, and the crown sparkles with life and light, and all is peaceful and well. 

“It suits you,” Thorin hears himself say.

Bilbo’s eyes widen in surprise. And this time it is a honest emotion that flickers on his face; but at that the mirage shatters and Thorin reminds himself that for all his kind looks Bilbo is still his wardener in what will be his prison for life. 

“Thank you,” Bilbo says, but Thorin has already turned his head to glare at the glittering tree. The lawnchairs have filled with chattering hobbits, and many are looking into their direction. 

Bilbo clears his throat, regaining his mask. “If you are ready, we can begin the ceremony. We’re just waiting for the last guests to find a seat.”

“Well,” Thrain declares with a forced chuckle. “Then I’ll go and sit.”

* * *

As they wait for the last festively dressed hobbits to hurry to their over-decorated chairs, the music begins to play. The tune, while appropriately solemn, is joined by a cheerful flute melody that echoes clear and bright over the tree-shaded lawn. A small stream nearby gurgles happily, and all this beauty makes a mockery of the ceremony they are staging.

Marriage, Thorin had always thought, was connected to love. Certainly, as a dwarf of his position, political aspects had to be taken into account. But his father, his grandfather, his uncles and aunts - they all had married for love. 

So with unease churning in his stomach he offers his arm to Bilbo, who takes it with a degree of surprise. A small, scarless hand settles in the crook of Thorin’s elbow and on the next beat, they step forward together. 

The assembled hobbits rise.  This close, Thorin can’t help the questions that arise again - why is Bilbo pursuing this charade at all? Haven’t the hobbits established their power over the rest of the world enough? Do they really need Thorin as a hostage?

Accompanied by sweet music Thorin and Bilbo walk down the aisle to where the Thain awaits them, standing atop a small podest before the tree’s wide trunk. He smiles benignly at Bilbo, but when his eyes turn to Thorin his expression cools. 

The music gently fades away, and with some rustling and clanging the hobbits sit again. Thorin steels his nerves. If he only concentrates on his lines and forgets their meaning, he can get through this. Grind his teeth and bear it. 

A warm breeze picks up just as the Thain begins to speak, playing with Bilbo’s curls and tugging on Thorin’s braids. Sunlight breaks through the tree’s swaying leaves and makes his crown sparkle like a rain shower of stars, and despite himself Thorin has to admit that this - this ceremony - is incredibly beautiful. 

In carefully chosen words the Thain speaks of friends and family and strangers that can become both. He speaks of bonds and affection, but until the end does not mention love. Perhaps, Thorin thinks for a moment, marriage to hobbits also means something.

“Now, to be united in love and trust from today forevermore, before me stand Thorin, son of Thrain, and Bilbo Baggins,” the Thain raises his voice. 

Love and trust, Thorin thinks, a life sentence this is.

“Do you, Bilbo Baggins, promise to love, honor, and care for Thorin from this day on for the rest of time?” The Thain gazes solemnly at his grandson, but Bilbo’s mask has turned impenetrable. 

“I will,” Bilbo vows, his voice neither too light nor too solemn. Perfect, as in every act he has performed so far, and Thorin resolves to hate him a little more. Dwarves do not care for dishonesty.

And yet, when the Thain turns the question onto him and Thorin finds himself under that sharp green-eyed gaze, he speaks what he must. “I will.”

“Then the ceremony is complete,” the Thain grandly announces, straightening, and the emeralds decorating his coat shine brightly in the sun. “Before the witnesses of this assembly, and those that watch from the sky and the air, before friends and family, the vows have been spoken and heard. Go now and find your happiness!”

He gives them a tiny smile - Thorin doesn’t think it’s for him. His heart drops, but he forces his lips into grin as he grips Bilbo’s hand too tightly and they turn around. The hobbits have risen - so have his father and Dwalin - and are clapping and cheering, while the music starts to play anew. 

His fate has been sealed, Thorin thinks and an eery sense of hopelessness spreads through his chest. He’s gotten married to somebody whom he barely knows. He has become a pawn, never to return to his home. To spend the rest of his life among those hobbits whose ways are even more mysterious than those of the elves. 

And one misstep on his part can easily ruin all of Erebor.

Each step he takes feels like a journey. The weight on his shoulders has increased greatly - and yet all are congratulating him and Bilbo, clapping their shoulders, throwing flower petals mixed with small diamonds. 

At least nobody demands to talk to Thorin.

No, it turns out the hobbits are far more interested in the imposing spread of local and foreign delicacies awaiting them. Thorin finds himself impressed against his will - the cutlery is made of mithril, the plates framed with gold, and diamonds spread over the table clothes as decoration. And the food - never before has Thorin seen such a wide selection of different dishes, smelled such enchanting spices or even seen those fruits and ingredients. 

And that is before dessert is served. 

When Thorin is nearly bursting and Bilbo has mellowed enough to speak to him and not only the relatives visiting their table, a group of hobbits comes out and exchanges the dishes for dessert. There are pies and pudding. Cakes and artworks made from layers of colored sugar, whipped cream and exotic fruits. 

“It is quite astonishing,” Thrain says when he stops at their table, his eyes star-struck. “I’ve never seen such.”

Bilbo smiles gently. “For us,” he says and something in his voice sounds soft, though that may also be the wine he has been drinking, “Things that grow are the most important. We treasure food - and pride ourselves in our creativity in growing and using it.”

Thorin stops himself from snorting. Or course, a hobbit that knows nothing of battle or valour, would treasure food above all. 

“Your kind certainly have a special skill at this,” Thrain compliments. 

Bilbo shrugs. “It would appear so.”

Once the dessert has been finished, the dishes are once more taken away, and when Thorin turns he finds the lawn under the tree has been cleared of chairs and all. In the fading daylight he finds a small podest has been set up and an orchestra is taking their places. 

Dancing, he recalls. What comes now is the dancing.

Bilbo catches his gaze. “We don’t have to dance,” he says. “They will understand.”

“For understanding your people seem quite insistent on adhering to tradition,” Thorin replies bitterly. 

For a moment Bilbo closes his eyes, looking annoyed. A spark of glee lights in Thorin’s chest - is he finally getting through? 

It is extinguished momentarily. Bilbo turns to look at him coldly. “Then we should honor tradition,” he snipes back and rises to his feet. “Beloved,” he crows, “Allow me to have this dance.”

Put on the spot Thorin can only comply.

If he doesn’t, the marriage is off. And while he’d greet that development, Erebor’s trading contracts with the Shire would be voided instantly. And then his people would starve. 

So Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand and lets the hobbit lead them onto the lawn. Where dwarves would require polished marble for a dancing floor, hobbits apparently prefer to feel grass under their bare feet - such things Thorin concentrates on in order not to notice all the people staring at them. 

The orchestra waits until they’ve taken position. Thorin swallows down a large knot in his throat before placing his hands over Bilbo’s - and then the music starts. 

Thorin doesn't recognise the cheerful melody. But the fast beat, that he can handle, so he steps forward and forces Bilbo along. The hobbit nearly stumbles, ending up pressed against Thorin’s chest. A wave of dark satisfaction arises in Thorin and he adds another quick sidestep. A twist. A turn. Anything to keep Bilbo off balance. 

But not for long. Somehow the hobbit regains his feet and abruptly Thorin is faced into unfamiliar dance steps. 

He might be stronger. But Bilbo knows how to use their momentum. 

The people watching begin to clap. Somebody cheers. And Thorin’s mood sinks even lower.

He tightens his grip on Bilbo’s hand until the hobbit frowns angrily up at him. And presses back. With dead certainty he manages to force pressure onto the knuckles on Thorin’s hand and sends a spike in pain up his arm.

They both relent. 

And are glad when the song is over.

“Amazing cousin!” Somebody calls from the sideline, and Thorin overhears a hobbit commenting “my, I never knew you could combine hobbit and dwarven dance steps like this. Do you think we could do this with elvish steps as well?”

After this they make their apologies and retreat to Bag End with winks and suggestive suggestions echoing in their ears. Thorin stares at the green door with trepidation - this will be his life, from today on forevermore. The vows echo in his ears like a nightmare. 

Bilbo meanwhile stomps past him and opens the door with a sigh of exhaustion. 

Several oil lamps cast a warm light in the entrance hall - unchanged since Thorin last visited. He takes a look at the paintings again, desiring to distract himself. They are out of the public eye, but what comes now will likely be worse.

Every marriage needs to be consummated. There may be provisions under dwarven law.

But this is a hobbit wedding contract, and Thorin doubts his word will count for anything from here on. As long as Erebor depends on him, he must do as Bilbo pleases. Though he doesn’t even want to imagine doing anything like -

“At the end of the main corridor, you’ll find another small corridor to the right. It holds three rooms - a bedroom, a study and a bathroom. Those are yours.”

Thorin stops. “Are we not supposed to -”

Bilbo sighs loudly, the mask slipping away and when he looks up at Thorin he seems endlessly tired. “This is as much as I’m willing to do.”

So he’s seeing himself as the victim? Thorin thought the anger in him had gone out, but he finds the embers are still glowing. “You? Willing to do so much? How generous!” he nearly roars. “You’ve forced me into your home, why not force me into your bed as well? I’m the spoils of war, after all.”

Bilbo’s expression turns frosty and he crosses his arms. “I had no idea Erebor and the Shire were at war,” he returns coldly. “The Thain may be most interested to learn that, I believe.”

Before Thorin can interrupt, Bilbo shakes his head. “I don’t know how often I’ve said it, but  _ this _ is to keep you alive and hopefully to prevent any sort of war or possible conflict. So before you escalate it to that, I bid you a good night.”

“You -”

“Good night.”

_ tbc _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to talk to either of us over on tumblr! ([iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com) | [paranoidfridge](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com))


	3. Life in the Shire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the marriage, Thorin begins to settle into his new life - something he finds utterly frustrating. At the same time, the south grows restless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to an offscreen death of a minor character (non-canonical) in the last section of the chapter. 
> 
> And [iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com) did a gorgeous drawing of Thorin looking after his departing family.

On the day after the marriage Dwalin and Thrain take their leave. Bilbo stands awkwardly in the background while Thorin embraces his friend and father, trying hard to fight down the tears. Seeing them clad in their journeying gear drives the knife deeper into his heart.

They will go home.

He cannot.

“Don’t lose hope,” Dwalin whispers as they knock their foreheads together one last time. “We’ll get you back.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Thrain promises, drawing his son in a tight embrace.

And Thorin wants desperately to believe them. But he would not have married this hobbit if the dwarves of Erebor had any power in this affair. Hopelessness spreads in his chest as he watches the familiar figures disappear down the winding path. It’s a bright and beautiful morning; green trees sway in a gentle breeze under a cloudless sky, but darkness fills Thorin’s heart. It’s unlikely he will see either his home or his family again.

Bilbo clears his throat. “I’m going in,” he tells Thorin.

Thorin hears his footsteps fade away. But he remains where is for a long time, staring east over rolling hills and colorful gardens, feeling utterly uprooted and lost. He’s never been so alone, and for all the determination in his chest, he is afraid that he won’t get out of this.

Bilbo looks outside after a while. “Do you want lunch?” he asks.

Thorin doesn’t reply.

* * *

 

Thorin only enters Bag End after the sun has set. Then he marches straight to his room, ignoring Bilbo, ignoring the smell of food wafting through the corridor. He glares at his luxurious surroundings; a mockery of a prison. The mithril candleholders and the ruby-framed fireplace turn Thorin’s stomach.

It’s a cage, he thinks to himself. A thrice-damned cage.

He refuses breakfast and lunch the next day as well.

At dinner Bilbo comes knocking, carrying a tray that smells delicious. Thorin’s traitorous stomach growls and Bilbo has the audacity to look concerned.

“You should eat, Thorin,” he says. “I understand this is upsetting, but -”

“You don’t understand anything!” Thorin shouts, crossing the room to tower over Bilbo, and it drives a spike of satisfaction through his chest to see Bilbo taking half a step back. “If you understood you wouldn’t have insisted on this! You’d not be locking me up here!”

Bilbo’s mouth settles into a firm line and his expression goes flat. “A situation that resulted purely from your inability to control your temper. In case you failed to notice you are not the only party inconvenienced, but as usual your self-centeredness blinds you.”

He sets the tray down on the ground with a final-sounding thud as Thorin fumes silently. Bilbo inconvenienced, pah.

The hobbit casts him a poisonous look. “You would think a prince would know not to think of himself first when there is a kingdom depending on him.”

“You-“

Bilbo doesn’t let him speak. His face twists into an ugly snarl, and his voice turns vicious. “Indeed, I have to wonder if you actually want your people to starve. Ever since you arrived here you have been nothing but dismissive, suspicious and downright hostile. I don't see how that is supposed to help your people.”

Rage boils up in Thorin’s blood. “But you don't need me to act nice,” he hisses back, just as cutting, “You just need to make sure I don't get away - lest you lose your valuable pawn.”

Bilbo snorts. “You are greatly overestimating your own value.”

“And the Shire is not a prison,” Bilbo continues. “You are free to leave. Look how you fare outside of it - or how long it'll take for the mercenaries to catch up with you.”

“Oh, that's the way it is,” Thorin crows. “You'd simply tell them somebody else offed me, terribly sorry your majesty, now back to the contract.”

“Yes,” Bilbo replies with bite. “That is what we will say because it will be the truth.”

Thorin slams the door.

* * *

 

The following day Thorin wakes unusually late. Last night’s fight lingers like a bad memory, while sunlight streams through the thick curtains and his stomach growls with discomfort. Wearily he turns his gaze to the ceiling as his thoughts begin to spiral into anger and despair.

However, his stomach is insistent. He hasn’t eaten since the wedding, he supposes. Which isn’t terrible – dwarves are hardy folk – but the lack of food makes him feel unsteady. Out of sorts. Much as he would prefer to hide away forever, the growling of his stomach denies him that option.

Grinding his teeth, Thorin sits up, stands – totters for a moment – and then marches over to the closet. His travel gear, mended and laundered, hangs there, mocking him. Next to it he finds a selection of shirts, vests, trousers and all other garments needed; obviously made from quality materials and tailored to his size.

Beautiful clothes. Thorin hates them.

Still. Soft cotton sits better against his skin in the Shire’s warmer weather than hardened leathers, however, he feels very naked when he leaves his room. For a moment Thorin glances down the corridor, pondering – he hasn’t truly paid attention to Bag End, doesn’t know what lies beyond all the doors.

Though he does know where the kitchen is.

Nothing stirs, and he rather quickly finds Bilbo has left; at least the note left in the kitchen says so. He won’t be back until late at night either, and Thorin sighs in relief.

Perhaps there was a grain of truth in last night’s confrontation. Thorin hasn’t been on his best behavior, but he also has had no choice at all. It is, he admits to himself in the silence of an empty kitchen, a difficult situation, and he finds that what he originally deemed wrong and right blurring. The kernel of anger filling his chest has not vanished, but shrinks.

The hole in his stomach meanwhile has grown considerably, as a particularly loud growl announces to the world.

Alright, Thorin tells himself, breakfast first. As the royal chef Bombur always used to tell him, any day that doesn’t start with breakfast doesn’t even stand a chance of being good.

Warm sunlight streams in from the outside as Thorin sets down an arbitrary selection of bread, bread spreads and cured meats. Perhaps he could go out, check the perimeter? Then he takes a bite and momentarily forgets about everything.

How.

How can food taste this good?

He’d thought he’d known fine food in Erebor, but this constitutes an entire new dimension. Thorin fumbles with the glass, turning it to decipher the hand-written label – but _Bindbale Jam_ rings no bell, and Thorin is left chewing thoughtfully.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised, he thinks. After all, the Shire’s current power rests on their produce. And the magic nobody speaks about.

However, now that he is in the Shire, Thorin realizes, he has the chance to investigate the foundations of the hobbits’ power. And once he has worked it out, he will write to Erebor and all other kingdoms so they can restore order to the world.

A smile spreads across his face, and once his stomach is filled, he turns from the kitchen to search for the library.

What he finds is a fairly large room housing several bookshelves, another ruby-studded fireplace, two velvet-covered armchairs, and a large desk covered in papers. His curiosity piqued, Thorin takes a glance – but sees only columns of numbers, names of people he does not know, and references to occurrence he has never heard of. Several addresses are located in Gondor, though no more can be gleaned, and Thorin is too honorable to snoop any further.

He didn’t come here to purview his husband’s correspondence – he intends to learn more about the hobbits’ rise to power. Erebor’s histories have ever been vague on that part. Five centuries ago hobbits first began to cultivate the fields down in Rohan, Thorin recalls, and their great success eventually made the men depend on them. From there, their power spread like a plague.

Thorin eyes the shelves. At least Bilbo seems to have arranged his books by topic; the only sensible decision according to Erebor’s librarians. Bilbo collection houses a fair number of books on elvish history and poetry, Thorin realizes with a grimace.

He moves on, finds three entire shelves dedicated to all sorts of collected tales and legends. A few times he recognizes the word magic – but it always, always turns out to be a tale. His mood sinks further when he passes another large section on elvish history.

The dwarven section he finds is only slightly smaller; and to his surprise Thorin spies copies of familiar tomes among them. All five volumes of the _History of Erebor_ as edited by Fundin make Thorin’s lips twitch. His fingers ghost over their hard bindings, and find a small leather tome next to it. _Dwarven lineages_ this one is titled – the author not known to Thorin, but they did their research well.

Nostalgia rises when Thorin discovers the _Tales of Aule and his Children_ – his father used to tell him and his siblings those when they were young. Those rare moments when politics hadn’t claimed their family; when even Thror sometimes joined in to add a note or two to the tales.

But that was a long time ago, back when his mother had been alive, and the world had seemed simple.

Thorin reluctantly ignores two rare books. There are only three surviving copies of _The History of Khazad-dum_ left; one shouldn’t be hidden away in a private collection in the Shire. But what Thorin seeks are answers to the riddle of the hobbits’ power – not almost lost accounts of dwarven history.

Before long he realizes that Bilbo owns no books on magic. With a frown Thorin decides to look for hobbit authors, and discovers very few. A few collections of “popular tales”, “drinking songs”, “farming suggestions”, and about thirty cookbooks are all Bilbo owns.  

Perhaps the cookbooks constitute a code? Thorin pulls one from the shelf, opens it. The content lists five different recipes for pumpkin soup, three types of pumpkin pie, roasted pig with pumpkin. With a frown Thorin puts it back, grabs another – which contains only recipes for sweet dessert cakes.

If there is a code hidden in these, he cannot see it – and perhaps there is no code at all. Maybe Bilbo keeps the books of importance elsewhere?

By the end of the day Thorin has investigated Bag End’s garden shed and cellar, discovered several spiders, a second pantry, and bottles of exquisite wine. But no trace of magic, no hint as to what gives the hobbits their power.

Frustrated, he retires before Bilbo returns. 

* * *

 

Bilbo obviously has no desire to speak with Thorin either. He hasn’t even left a note for Thorin, but the house is empty. Thorin starts his day with a leisurely breakfast and then decides to complete his letters. His father and Dwalin will need weeks yet before they reach Erebor, but he owes his sister and brother news.

Writing to the King is more difficult – he has no concrete news to share; nor can he be certain his letters will reach Erebor unopened. But before long he has the lines down and seals the envelope.

Thorin takes a deep breath before leaving the house. Birds are singing and the weather is warm, bordering on hot. Fluffy white clouds fly over the sky, down below the small lake glitters in the sun. A few hobbits pass Thorin on the way to the market square – their conversations fall silent as he passes them – and he wonders.

What if hobbits only speak of their secrets? What if they have never written down the key to their power?

Thorin still ponders this as he reaches the post office. It’s a quaint building right behind the market square where two saddled ponies leisurely chew hay while their riders lounge in the shadow of a tree. As Thorin enters, he finds the postmaster waving after an elderly hobbit from a plump chair, calling “don’t worry, Master Worrywart”. Master Worrywart shakes his head and slowly inches past Thorin, his golden cane thudding on the floor, but he apparently doesn’t even see the dwarf.

Thorin hesitates for a moment, before stepping forward and handing over his letters. The postmaster eyes the addresses critically, then turns to Thorin.

“Courier?” he inquires, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Thorin answers bluntly – the instructions on the letter ought to be clear. “Also,” and he forces himself to be polite, “is there a public library here?”

The hobbit blinks. “No, I’m afraid the next library is in Bree. But you should ask your husband – I understand he has a fairly sizeable collection and if not, the Thain’s collection is said to be the largest in the entire Shire.”

“The mayor office at Michael Delving keeps copies of all contracts, though,” an elderly lady adds as she enters.

The postmaster nods. “That he does. Now, those letters will take a while to reach their destination.”

Thorin nods in understanding and takes his leave. As he steps outside, he overhears the old lady saying “… a bit brusque, but I suppose it’s understandable. Must be homesick…”

Thorin purses his lips. What use is their sympathy when they are the ones forcing him to stay in this accursed place? Even the bright sunshine seems to be mocking him.

The day is growing hot and so Thorin resolves to return to Bag End for the time being. He passes the market which today has only few booths of local traders. Most hobbits wear light silken gowns and wide-brimmed hats to shield from the sun – which makes his hair grow uncomfortably hot.

“… in the south,” he hears somebody say in passing and thinks he recognizes the hobbit as one of the wedding guests.

His companion certainly looks concerned. “Then maybe we should call them back?”

“With the autumn harvest coming up and all the population increases, I don’t think we can. But the steward is aware, and so is everybody else.”

Gondor then, Thorin thinks, curious. He knows the south tends to be politically difficult. Gondor and Rohan are aligned, though don’t see eye to eye in all matters. Gondor and Mordor have unsolved territorial disputes, which include the legitimacy of Mordor as a country. Generally not many countries accept Mordor, however, Gondor’s claim to Mordor’s territory has lead certain fractions in Harad to actually side with Mordor.

“… hope things stay calm,” is what Thorin hears as he wanders away.

* * *

 

Thorin retreats to Bag End’s wide backyard to train, and when the heat grows unbearable goes inside. He retrieves food before Bilbo returns, and picks up _The Tales of Aule_ for reading.

The next morning, he steps into the kitchen to find Bilbo sitting at the table. Thorin freezes in surprise, though Bilbo calmly sips on his tea.

“The postmaster asked me whether you really intended to send them by courier,” Bilbo says, pointing to the envelopes lying on the table. Thorin recognizes his letters. He cannot see whether or not they’ve been opened, but blood rushes to his face.

Bilbo watches his reaction carefully. “Courier to Erebor would take three months. Twice that time in winter,” he says.

Thorin crosses his arms over his chest. “So they were delivered directly to you instead?” he asks.

“The postmaster felt you were perhaps unaware of your options,” Bilbo returns patronizingly. “For long distance correspondences we send letters to the post office in Tookborough. They have raven and pigeon roosts – they will use whatever method is fastest. Letters to Erebor should take about a week.”

Thorin inhales deeply, forces his displeasure down, and nods. “Very well. How do I note this on the envelope?”

“Just keep the address and write via Tookborough office,” Bilbo replies and gets up. “Also I will be having guests over later.”

“I won’t disturb you,” Thorin promises. 

* * *

 

Thorin heads down to the post office again, picks a few books from Bilbo’s library, and then takes Orcrist and heads to the backyard. The familiar exercises help him regain his equilibrium.

He does not mean to eavesdrop. But when he leaves the backyard intending to return to his own room, he hears voices from the library. He can’t quite see who is there, but the discussion sounds fierce.

“And what are they offering?” somebody asks, sounding exasperated. “More stones for grain?”

Thorin’s curiosity is piqued. He hears Bilbo sigh.

“Diamonds,” another person guesses. “Or some other form of rocks. Useless as usual. You know that we’re selling them at a loss, and the last ruby shipment from Erebor was of subpar quality.”

Thorin bristles. How dare those hobbits - they can’t tell quartz from diamond and they dare to call Erebor’s priced rubies worthless?

“Perhaps there was a mistake,” Bilbo offers weakly.

“Mistake or not, by now that’s almost the smaller problem,” voice number one says sharply. “The price drop to the south is no accident – Gondor’s markets have been flooded with rubies, and I doubt those were exported there from Khand.”

“I know, Rufus,” Bilbo replies slightly sharper. “And I have raised the issue with the King under the Mountain, and am waiting on the reply. But I also understand they are in a difficult position as they need to import grain from the south to feed their population.”

“Then why do they send us faulty stones and flood the market in Gondor with quality wares?” the one Bilbo named as Rufus asks.

And the still unnamed hobbit adds. “Even if this was truly but a mistake – you know the jewelers of Ered Luin and Rohan pay for their grain imports through the jewelry they can sell to the south. The price drop is hurting them badly.”

Thorin’s blood runs cold. Erebor’s trade with Gondor had always been hailed a sign of their independence by his grandfather. He’d never contemplated it affecting other countries.

“Neither Rohan nor Ered Luin are depending on jewelry trade though,” Bilbo returns. “Especially now that Rohan gets to sell their horses to the Haradrim and Khand they’re profiting nicely. And you know even Rhûn’s interested, Ludo.”

Rufus, however, seems not satisfied. “In short term, no, I don’t see this causing great harm either. Should the undercutting persist, however, I believe we need to investigate. Especially since it renders Erebor’s payments to us worth even less.”

“And there is the factor of growing unrest,” Ludo adds more quietly. “You must have heard about what is going on in Ithilien – it is not only the jewelry trade that is being affected. The young Miss Worrywart who’s overseeing farming there is worried they’ll have a riot on their hands.”

“Lobelia said she’d look into it,” Bilbo says.

“Lobelia’s idea of solving this would be to send a horde of orcs through in order to make everybody appreciate our agreement keeps them behind the Ash Mountains nowadays,” Rufus returns sharply.

Thorin shudders.

In the library, Bilbo chuckles. “Indeed,” he agrees. “But it is also poisoned land that is difficult to work with anyway. I’m not surprised the malice in the ground is affecting people there.”

“It wasn’t the brightest idea to have great numbers of people settle there, no,” Ludo agrees. “But I’m afraid the malice there isn’t our main enemy.”

“You think somebody is plotting against us?” Bilbo asks. The tone of his voice sends a cold shiver down Thorin’s spine. He’s last heard this steel when he faced Bilbo on the other side of a negotiation table.

Ludo – whoever he may be – apparently is similarly intimidated. “I don’t know,” he hastens to reply. “I just … from what we hear…”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Rufus adds quietly, and Thorin recalls a plump cheerful hobbit with an intelligent gleam to his eye. His words make his appearance a lie, and Thorin near breathlessly continues to listen.

“Riots have happened and will happen again – they are bound to when the markets lose their balance or some demagogue manages to plant the right rumors in folks’ ears. The steward of Gondor won’t tolerate Ithilien rebelling, and if he can’t control them, Mordor will gladly reclaim those lands.”

Birds sing cheerfully in the tree above Bag End. Leaves rustle in a warm summer breeze. But the sweat on Thorin’s back has turned to ice, and his heart has frozen. He has grown up learning about the power plays of the Kings of old, of how they used their citizens as pawns. Yet no historian has seen the hobbits move entire kingdoms as their pawns.

“But perhaps the best thing would be if no riots happened, wouldn’t you agree, Rufus?” Bilbo challenges. “After all, I do not believe the steward of Gondor would rejoice in slaughtering his own citizens to quell a rebellion. And letting Mordor reclaim Ithilien posits a de facto loss of arable land.”

Thorin decides he has heard enough. Perhaps he should linger and learn more, a voice in the back of his head suggests – but what he overheard has shaken him. His thoughts spin as he walks to his room. He needs to inform Erebor, but of what?

That the hobbits misjudge the value of Erebor’s jewel deliveries is known. That Erebor’s trade with Gondor hurts the value further might be news – yet as Thorin starts to pen down the words, he realizes that he cannot turn them into a suggestion. Erebor cannot afford to trade less to Gondor as it would cut off one of its most important grain suppliers.

The matter of Ithilien only underlines the ruthless power politics Erebor already knows hobbits are capable of. But the interior politics of Gondor are not considered important by the crown – or at least Thorin cannot recall having heard them discussed.

So all he can do in the end is set a half-written letter aside, and bury his face in his hands.

* * *

 

He tries to find out more about the hobbits’ rise to power over the following weeks. Not that he has much else to do – but neither is his research fruitful. Even the elvish histories only mention contract after contract; not a word of magic. A writer from Gondor remarks on farming methods, and Thorin reluctantly attempts to make sense of one of the few hobbit books on farming. But he doesn’t understand much of soil and seeds, and it doesn’t read like magic either.

Time passes, and summer grows hot. The hobbits Thorin spies passing by Bag End’s entrance hall windows wear short-sleeved silk shirts with gold trimmings. Even their straw hats are decorated with bands of rare fabrics or glittering jewels that imitate the shape of flowers.

What frivolous waste of so precious gems, he thinks and misses Bilbo himself turning up. The hobbit, once again dressed, exquisitely in light silks, walks into the kitchen, letters in his hand.

“Good morning, Thorin,” he greets, and lifts three envelopes tied together with a string. “Those arrived today – feel free to check the letter box yourself every now and then.”

The moment Thorin recognizes the familiar blue seal on parchment his heart jumps in joy. He nearly rips the letters from Bilbo’s hand, and can’t quite stop his lips from twitching as he assures that “I will do so”.

His sister’s handwriting jumps at him from the cover of the topmost envelope, and Thorin’s heart aches. He missed them so much, and it’s difficult not to run directly back to his own room to read them.

In passing he does recognize the Durin seal in black wax on one of Bilbo’s on letters, and finds his curiosity piqued. What would his grandfather write to Bilbo about? Thorin? Trading contracts? The odd business in the south?

“There will also be dwarves from Ered Luin on the market tomorrow,” Bilbo calls after him, and Thorin merely nods while leaving.

The paper under his fingers feels like fire, so he hurries back to his rooms, slams the door and drops down in the nearest armchair. Shaking fingers rip through the string and the envelopes tumble on his desk. Not only has his sister written, but so have his brother, his grandfather, Balin, and even Gloin.

His heart warms and he can feel the beginnings of a smile on his face.

All is well, Dis writes in steady letters. Or as well as it can be. Frerin is not very happy with his unexpected promotion in the line of succession, and Thorin wonders why Dis has been skipped. She does not address it, but notes down Frerin’s complains about having had to attend a state dinner in Dale together with the elves.

That old antipathy won’t be resolved anytime soon. Even if Thranduil – immortal that he is – should one day chose to abdicate, his son makes just as apt a prat, Dis reports. Thorin chuckles at her words, yet can’t quite stop his mind from turning. If Erebor’s relations with the Greenwood were better, they could trade with them for food, which would have lessened their dependence on the Shire and Gondor.

Her sons also miss their uncle, Dis writes toward the end of her letter, and she does miss him too. Perhaps he can come and visit? It may not be the best of circumstances, but she hopes he is doing well in the Shire.

With a small snort Thorin sets the letter aside. His brother is more direct, wondering if it’s true that the Shire already compels children to learn dark magic. And how about that old tale where hobbits demand a human sacrifice when their terms of trade aren’t met? Hordes of slaves toiling in the fields?

Thorin grimaces. It pains him that he still cannot answer just what made the hobbits become so powerful. And while the horror stories they heard in Erebor aren’t true, he still shudders to remember the conversation he overheard.

The King’s missive is short. Thror wants to know all about the Shire’s magic, and compels Thorin to learn what he can. For they all must do their utmost to restore Erebor to its rightful glory.

The time is ripe, Thror adds in unusual elaborate style. Middle Earth is ready to throw off the hobbits’ yoke – Erebor may have realized this before the others, but things have begun to move again. After four hundred years, things will change.

Thorin purses his lips. He is, he has to admit, not entirely convinced. Back in Erebor, he only had a very abstract idea of the Shire – now that he is here and has glimpsed its politics, he doubts the change his grandfather desires will occur so easily.

Yet if it can be done –

Thorin begins to write his replies.

* * *

 

On the next morning, Thorin finds himself wandering the winding path down toward the market early. The sun isn’t high yet, but already the air feels warm. A few hobbits nod toward him in greeting before hurrying on, their colorful summer clothes glittering in the sun.

It has been some time since he last left Bag End, he has to admit to himself. Yet he has little business elsewhere in Hobbiton, and does feel quite out of place among the hobbits on the market. After dropping his letters off at the post office, he browses the stalls though produce and seeds hold little interest for him, and it galls him to see how some vendors use diamonds as a decoration to present their fishes and carrots.

The dwarven stall is set slightly to the back of the market and when Thorin approaches two dwarves straighten immediately, while the third is busy wrapping up a purchase with a hobbit. The clanging noises emerging from behind a screen hint to the presence of more dwarves, but for now Thorin feels self-conscious as he approaches. What picture does he make, clad in a white silk shirt and a fine blue and silver waistcoat? Though the geometric patterns decorating it are dwarven, the cut is undeniably hobbitish.

“Your highness,” the first dwarf, an elderly fellow with a long, white beard braided into a long, elaborate braid. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” He inclines his head and his comrades follow.

Thorin nods in return. “I am afraid I do not know your names.”

The dwarf introduces himself as Hemar, son of Lemi originally from Ered Luin. Due to the growing population in those mountains he and his little troupe, however, have taken to travelling for most of the year, only returning home for the celebrations of Durin’s Day and the worst months of winter. Twice a year they pass by Hobbiton, where they sell mostly iron wares like cooking pots or gardening tools, but also silver cutlery, and a few fine pieces of jewelry.

“We’re no jewelers, though,” Hemar explains as he and Thorin walk leisurely alongside the gurgling little river that runs through Hobbiton. “Urdu has quite some talent, but she prefers to forge swords. They always sell very well down south.”

He chuckles, and shrugs.

“And here?” Thorin asks as they pass a hobbit dozing next to his silver fishing rod. “What do the hobbits buy from you?”

Hemar smiles. “Oh, this and that as you saw. Mostly when we stay here we do home visits and repair locks and such things.” He picks up on the darkening of Thorin’s face and adds: “I know it’s no noble trade or anything, but it pays very well and keeps us and our families fed and clothed. And to the hobbits’ it is a rather important job, so I won’t complain.”

Thorin has a different opinion, but that he’ll keep to himself. “What about Ered Luin? What do they trade to the Shire?” Last time he heard Ered Luin was not rich in gems or even gold. A few good strains of silver, some diamonds and a lot of iron. Nowhere near the riches of Erebor.

“Oh, quite a number of different things,” Hemar replies a little amused at Thorin’s suspicion. “The iron from there is popular in the south. It’s not quite the quality of that coming from the Iron Hills, but as the roads are shorter and better, it’s a lot more affordable. Nearly the entirety of Rohan’s riders has been equipped with Ered Luin iron.”

Thorin did not know that, so he merely nods.

“Quite a lot of mining then, I suppose,” he comments after a moment.

“Quite,” Hemar laughs. “Still, the population has been growing quite quickly in those recent decades. It’s a bit tricky finding work for everybody - so a few of us have taken to travelling or setting up shops in the surroundings. There is a bit of work for jewelers; even down south they don’t have enough jewelers to work all the stones sent down from Erebor. That is one blessed mountain indeed.”

“Indeed,” Thorin echoes faintly, his mind racing. He recalls the mentioned price drop in the south and its impact. “Would you think it would help the situation if Erebor exported less stones to the south?”

Hemar stiffens, abruptly recalling just whom he is talking to. “Your highness, I’m afraid I understand little of the wider politics involved,” he hedges. “Personally, I appreciate that there is always work to be found, but I know that those in Ithilien cannot often afford it. And in recent years we have been getting paid less for our work.”

Because a greater supply of gems resulted in their value decreasing, Thorin realizes. Which in turn may or may not be related to Erebor’s increased demand for grain from the south in order to gain independence from the Shire.

It truly is a pity they never managed to establish decent relations with the Greenwood, Thorin thinks bitterly.

* * *

 

Summer goes on; Thorin writes letters and receives replies. But his grandfather tells him not to worry. All shall be resolved. His father assures Thorin that they hope to be able to renegotiate with the hobbits in time - perhaps the marriage can be annulled.

So time passes.

Until one morning when the days have already begun to grow shorter, Thorin comes into the kitchen to find Bilbo seated at the table, sipping his tea. A missive from Erebor lies next to his plate.

“We received Erebor’s payment for the winter harvest yesterday,” Bilbo says frostily. “And I was surprised to see it consisted of rubies again. I believe your father already returned to the mountain with the changed contract.”

Thorin freezes. His sister’s last letter mentioned Thrain had returned – and relayed his apology for not writing since he’d apparently barely had had time to breathe.

“I was wondering if you would be able to explain it,” Bilbo continues.

Thorin's blood heats. “How would I know? I’m not in Erebor, am I?”

“But you have been writing letters,” Bilbo replies.

As if Bilbo hadn’t. The truth is, Thorin has no explanation, but he barely gets to reply before a sharp knock to the front door interrupts him.

“Mister Baggins!” somebody calls in a near panic. Thorin looks in askance to Bilbo who appears equally surprised, and swiftly rises to his feet.

“Yes, what is it?” he calls out as he makes his way toward the door.

Somebody opens the door and a young lad stumbles into Bag End’s hallway, panting and pale-faced. Thorin lingers in the kitchen doorway, uncertain.

“Mister Baggins, word came from Gondor,” the lad gasps. “There was a riot in Ithilien. Miss Worrywart and her family there are all dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely reactions! This chapter and the next have been redesigned in response to your feedback, so please point out if you find any inconsistencies. Also, feel free to contact us ([iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com) | [paranoidfridge](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)) on tumblr!


	4. Gems of Dubious Quality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the riot in Ithilien allows Thorin to observe Shire politics in action. And then the issue of Erebor's latest shipment of stones and their quality rears its ugly head...

The day after the unfortunate news reached the Shire, all family heads gather in Tookborough to hold council with the Thain. Thorin attended on Bilbo’s suggestion; and while he finds himself curious and concerned, he also feels out of place. Most hobbits ignore him, but some cast him angry glares. Erebor is not Gondor, but Thorin gains the impression that to some that matters very little.

The large, richly decorated room continues to fill. Bilbo gets drawn into a deep conversation with an older lady; Thorin picks out a seat in a dark corner. He’s not hiding, he tells himself, but he’d rather observe than be involved.

The meeting hasn’t officially begun when somebody bursts out “Embargo them! Cut off their provisions for once and for all!”

Thorin, Bilbo, and many others turn their heads to watch a middle-aged hobbit stand from his chair, hands shaking with rage. “Embargo them for a thousand years and let Mordor curse those lands! What they’ve done to my sweet child –“ His voice breaks off.

Thorin recognizes him as the hobbit he met at the post office. And for all the bitter anger discoloring that voice – the emotions ring true, and Thorin thinks he’d demand the same had harm come to his family.

Somebody else reaches over and tugs the older hobbit down. He folds, buries his face in his hands, and Thorin glances away with shame.

“Ecthelion of Gondor has already assured us all assistance in this matter,” the Thain speaks up. As he rises to his feet, the last mutters stop, and the room finally settles.  “He sent his expressed sympathies for the families of the departed.”

“He only wants to make sure we don’t let the orcs come in,” somebody interrupts with a snort.

“And why shouldn’t we?” Lobelia proclaims, standing up. “There have been stirrings for some time. Get rid of the hobbits, they say. Look at them, they can’t even fight – why should we comply with their demands? Why not put our swords to their necks and demand they provide us with food – cheaper than paying them for it.”

The hall falls silent. Thorin recalls having heard similar words back in Erebor, having had similar thoughts himself – and his gut twists. The Thain has his head tilted, and when Thorin glances to Bilbo, his husband is chewing his lower lip. Neither seems to agree.

“If we want to make sure we don’t end up slaves of men,” Lobelia continues, “we cannot allow this to pass unpunished. The steward of Gondor will only pursue this issue a far as it benefits him.”

“That’s true!” somebody else agrees loudly, and quite a few hobbits mutter in agreement.

The Thain, however, frowns. “And what would the orcs demand for that service?” he asks.

Lobelia shrugs. “Some food, and free passage further east and south. Steel, a few gems maybe.”

“So they can kill and murder indiscriminately in other lands?” another hobbit asks, rising to his feet. He’s another person Thorin recognizes, though can’t recall the name. “What does this make us? What would it make us if we allowed the orcs to slaughter others in our name even?”

“Those men killed the Worrywarts!” somebody shouts.

“And killing them won’t bring them back to life,” Bilbo interrupts sharply and rises to his feet himself. “Punishment for what has occurred must be delivered, but Drogo is right; mindless slaughter is not the answer. What has Gondor offered?”

Not everybody agrees with Bilbo, but all do turn their attention back to the Thain. Thorin lets go of a breath he had been unconsciously holding. Shire politics, it turns out, aren’t quite what he envisioned back in Erebor. Yet those cries for blood rather match the image of a conscienceless hunger for power.

Although not all hobbits appear to share this desire. And there is still no hint of magic.

“… will be returned,” the Thain is saying when Thorin’s mind refocuses on the conversation. “They are willing to offer compensation to the remaining family, and should they desire to witness the trial of the culprits, they will delay the trial as necessary.”

Heads turn back to the old Mister Worrywart, who sighs loudly. Exhausting is written over his features – it’s unlikely he could make such a long trek, Thorin thinks. “I … what remains of my family’s possessions, I would appreciate those things to be returned. All else…” He shakes his head.

“I do believe it would be wise to have somebody of us to appear in the trial,” the hobbit Bilbo earlier named as Drogo states quietly. “And somebody must take up the appointment for the area in question, too.”

“Who says that land will remain with Gondor?” somebody interrupts sharply. “The steward has failed to keep the people there in check already."

“Because the alternative would be to award the land to Mordor, and the orcs really are not good at farming,” an elderly hobbit injects. “No offense, Miss Sackville, but that trade with the orc’s really not a profitable business. I mean as long as it keeps them off the roads, I guess we can consider it a gain, but I’d rather not deepen those relations. In the end all they could do for us is spread fear and chaos, and these things certainly are not to our benefit.”

“It’s Sackville-Ba…” Lobelia begins, but is interrupted by the Thain.

“Thank you, Mrs Hornblower,” he says, and Thorin sees the steel in his soft features come out once more. “I find I agree with this position. The geographical politics of the south are not our concern – we will only care for the land that the men there ask us to administer. As such, whether or not those fields will remain under Gondorian governance is not for us to decide.”

Thorin takes a shuddering breath. No, it’s not the hobbits decision. But that does not change that they have the power to redraw the map thousand miles south from here should they so desire.

“I also believe it unwise to deepen any relations we have with the orcs. The initial aim of those contracts was to eliminate the danger of raids and improve the security of the roads, as this benefits us all.” The Thain glances around; his gaze stops on the old Mister Worrywart. “I believe our ambassador in Minas Tirith will attend the trial anyway, and knowing the young Master Brandybuck, I believe he will see that justice is dealt.”

His lips curl. “More I believe, shall not be necessary. Winter is approaching and from what I understood the riots destroyed much of the harvest. Due to events, we will naturally not be providing Ithilien with emergency rations – the steward is free to address this issue as he sees fit.”

Something cold runs down Thorin’s spine.

“But he also must determine if the people of Ithilien would like our support in the future,” the Thain continues. “The people there are free to decline; yet if they desire our support we must know so by midwinter, so preparations can be made.”

Some hobbits grumble. Most, however, nod.

Thorin’s fingertips are tingling. The Thain’s solution is ingenious, utterly calculated, but also perfectly fitting. As the people of Ithilien are free to decline the hobbits’ support, so are the hobbits not required to help those that killed their own. But if the harvest is destroyed, by the time midwinter comes, people will be hungry. And it is unlikely that they will decline any offer of help extended their way.

And simultaneously, the hobbits cannot be accused of consciously having starved anybody. Their offer of help, after all, had been made.

“Does anybody disagree?” the Thain asks, while Thorin shakes off the chill that has crept into his bones.

Not everybody looks happy with the solution. But nobody protests.

“Very well,” the Thain says, and his features grow gentle again. “Then the meeting is over.”

* * *

 

Thorin doesn’t quite know what to make of it all. He pens letters that make no sense, rips them apart, and rewrites them. Eventually he sends them off – perhaps back in Erebor they can make sense of Thorin’s words.

He knows his own worldview has begun to shift.

Certainly, the hobbits are calculating in their politics, to the degree of callousness. And yet – the Thain declared no interest in interfering with Gondorian politics. Quite a number of hobbits appear uncomfortable at their dealings with the orcs… It’s all rather confusing.

He has just returned from the post office, and is making himself a quick lunch in Bag End’s kitchen, when a shrill voice catches his attention.

“Bilbo,” Lobelia calls, her gem-studded hat glittering brightly in the late summer sun, “A moment please.”

Curiosity piqued, Thorin wanders over to the window.

“Well, a good day to you too, Lobelia,” Bilbo replies in a falsely polite voice that Thorin is far too familiar with. “What can I help you with?”

Lobelia turns to Bilbo with a pinched expression on her face. “Pretending to be stupid doesn’t become you,” she says. “Those stones we got from Erebor are worthless, and I really don’t appreciate your proposal of selling them to the orcs.”

Thorin stomach tightens. He leans closer to the kitchen window, though his husband remains half-obscured by bright green leaves. “So what do you intend to pay them with?” Bilbo asks sharply. “You do know they aren’t very keen on Dorwinion wine, or Southfarthing leaf.”

“Steel,” Lobelia returns flatly. “That would solve your problem, too. Weren’t those dwarves complaining about the unfair contracts anyway? As far as I know, steel barely matters to them – but we can sell it for a good price, unlike the worthless baubles they’re sending us.”

Thorin wants to protest. Steel, to dwarves isn’t worthless – but it is worth less than gems.

“You know why we can’t sell the orcs steel, Lobelia,” Bilbo replies icily. “The dwarves would never agree to it, nor would anybody else with their mind intact.”

“Why should we care what the dwarves want?” Lobelia asks just as coldly. “They’ve not cared to adhere to the contracts so far – and yes, I know their last shipment hasn’t even been assessed, but we both know what the verdict will be, don’t we? Worthless pieces of rocks again. Stuff we can’t sell but are supposed to pay for.”

“You may –“ Bilbo begins, but is interrupted.

“You’re too soft on them, Bilbo,” Lobalia says, and the hairs on Thorin’s back stand. “Like those folks in Ithilien, the dwarves are not far from rioting. They don’t like us, and if you don’t do anything about it, your head will be next.”

Bilbo doesn't reply fast enough and Thorin sees Lobelia lean in. And if not for his good position, he'd likely have never heard the next words.

“Who knows,” Lobelia hisses. “Perhaps your husband will do it himself. He must be thinking about it rather often.”  

Thorin's blood runs cold. He has -

“Lobelia,” Bilbo interjects sharply, “enough. I am aware that we don’t always see eye to eye, and I stand by my belief that your association with the orcs has done little for your character. The issues with the dwarves are my concern, and you will find that we have a very good relationship with the Blue Mountains.”

Lobelia snorts, and Bilbo crosses his arms.

“It may be fine among orcs to let an entire people starve for a profit, but it may do you well to remember you're a hobbit. We don't let anybody starve if we can help it.” Bilbo straightens up, and turns to leave. “Good day.”

* * *

 

That night, when Thorin hears Bilbo putter in the kitchen, he takes a deep breath and gathers his nerves. He has slain orcs, fought bandits. But he never felt quite like this.

“Bilbo,” Thorin clears his throat. The name tastes unfamiliar on his tongue, and the hobbit halts in surprise. Behind him the pots continue to bubble and steam merrily, only Bilbo’s eyes are now fully focused on Thorin.

“Is something the matter?”

His hair is mussed, and the top buttons of his shirt undone, Thorin notices. Then forces himself to focus on the matter at hand. “I overheard there were issues with the payments from Erebor,” he says. “Doubts regarding the quality of the stones.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows rise. “Did - oh, right.” He gives Thorin a small, fake smile. “Yes, there has been an issue. We hobbits are no jewelers, but the appraisers from Bree and even those down in Rohan all agreed the stones were worth far less than what they had been sold us for.”

Thorin frowns.

“But you know that,” Bilbo continues, tilting his head. “It was part of the discussion during our very first meeting.”

“Are you certain those appraisers were honest?” Thorin inquires quietly.

Bilbo shrugs. “We’ve been working with some of them for more than three decades.”

“Would it be possible for me to look at the stones in question myself?” Thorin hates the question as he is asking it. Hates that he allows to even consider the fact that the stones could be indeed worthless.

Bilbo blinks. “Well, yes,” he replies, visibly bemused. “Obviously, not all of the stones are in the Shire, but quite some of them are. We can go down to the store house tomorrow.”

* * *

 

The store house is exactly that: a large group of buildings that sits in the middle of wheat fields about thirty minutes’ walk outside of Hobbiton. Likely the buildings used to be barns a long time ago, or maybe stables - the smell of hay and horses lingers and Thorin eyes the entire structure skeptically.

“I thought you said there was only one store house?” he asks of Bilbo while the hobbit fiddles with a mithril keyring.

“One for the goods we get from Erebor,” Bilbo explains. “The other buildings house what we receive from other places that can’t be sold or sent forward immediately.”

“Which means these buildings house quite a lot of value,” Thorin says as he gazes up at the wooden structure. At least three stories high for a hobbit, but small compared to the palaces of Dale.

And frightfully unprotected.

“In theory, yes,” Bilbo replies, frowning as the first key does not open the door. Which, Thorin acknowledges, has at least been reinforced decently.

He crosses his arms. “You’re not afraid of thieves?”

“Not really,” Bilbo laughs unhappily. “Everything that is stored here can be bought quite cheaply at the local market - there is a reason those things have been put into storage.”

And bandits don’t dare to even approach the Shire.  

“Ah, this is it,” Bilbo proclaims and with a click the door springs open. Thorin swallows before following him inside.

He doesn’t know what he expected. The store house does not nearly resemble Erebor’s grand treasury. There are no open piles of gold or mountains of precious stones glittering in the dim light. Instead the air smells faintly musty, and Thorin sees various large chests stowed in orderly rows.

The chests are in impeccable condition. And yet to think that Erebor’s precious stones and wares within sit here, locked away and unused. Bitterness rises in Thorin’s throat.

“Where are those rubies?” he asks, his voice hard.

“They should be here.” Bilbo steps further into the hall, before making a decisive turn to the right and gestures to a group of silver-plated chest. “Yes, those three chests were the last delivery we received from Erebor.”

Thorin glumly joins Bilbo next to the nearest chest. The lid is secured by lock set within the chest itself - a tricky construct - and Bilbo fiddles with it for a moment before it opens.

The lid opens and Thorin stares down at a chest literally filled to the brim with glinting, red rubies. His first instinct is to disclaim any chance of those being fake or of insufficient quality. That glow is balm to his heart.

Then he notices it.

The glow is uneven. Too bright in some spots. The red more brown or orange in some stones. Dread coils in his stomach and he reaches out. Carefully sets aside a large, well-cut ruby.

The stone below is dull, almost brown. A ruby, but truly one of insufficient quality.

“And?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin’s throat closes. For a moment he can’t speak at all, while his mind races. He’d never wanted to believe it. But seeing this, denial is no longer an option.

“Could this have been tampered with?” he asks instead, his voice coming out hollow.

Bilbo frowns momentarily. “Unlikely. Those chests were taken here immediately after delivery.”

“Who delivered them?” It galls Thorin that he does not know.

“A caravan traveling from Erebor to Ered Luin accompanied the chests to Bree. They were constantly guarded.” Bilbo crosses his arms. “What about those stones?”

Thorin sighs. “The top layer is of excellent quality. The ones below…” He shakes his head, and turns his gaze away from the stones to the rows and rows of unopened chest. Will their contents look the same?

The notion makes him queasy.

Bilbo sighs. “Confusticate it,” he hisses. “What is the best use you could think of for those stones?”

They will never fetch the price the Shire paid for them, Thorin now realizes. “How many of them are there?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo raises his arms. “The official ledgers copied the information we received from Erebor. Reassessing all of this…” He trails off and runs a hand through his hair. “And the next delivery…”

Thorin almost feels a spark of sympathy. “But the next load isn’t due before spring, is it?” If there is somebody enriching themselves by fiddling with Erebor’s payment, they’ll be able to track them down.

Bilbo swallows and nods. “Yes, but usually we send out the order for grain and produce delivery months before the payment actually reaches the Shire or any of our assessors.”

Ice floods Thorin’s veins and he looks at Bilbo with a sudden sense of vertigo. “You mean to halt the food delivery?”

Some of his horror must have carried, because Bilbo looks up and their eyes meet. “I don’t, but I’m not the only one making these decisions, Thorin. Erebor gets most of its stock delivered from the south since that is much closer - but we do have to pay the farmers for their produce.”

Thorin recalls the discussion he witnessed not long ago with a shudder. Of course the farmers must be paid. And somebody must be willing to pay for these stones.

He recalls what Lobelia said of the orcs, and shudders. Even stones of such inferior quality – he does not want to see them in orcish hands.

“Let’s go outside,” Bilbo says with a sigh.

Thorin nods. “What will you do?” he asks, while Bilbo refastens the locks first on the opened chest, then on the door. The sun is bright and hot; the fields around them alive with birdsong.

“Do you think somebody could have tampered with the load?” he asks of Thorin instead. “It must have happened somewhere between leaving Erebor and before reaching Bree, and it must have been somebody with a key.”

Thorin swallows, then straightens. “I … would not want to believe it,” he says hesitatingly. “However, it is not impossible. I will write to Erebor to see what I can find out.”

Bilbo’s shoulders slump a little. “Thank you,” he says, and there is a note of honest relief in his voice that makes Thorin pause. “I’d rather not bring this to the Thain yet. Getting the spring delivery to Erebor approved will be difficult enough.”

They turn back to the road that led them here. Long grass bows in the wind, a gentle breeze, and Thorin is grateful for the soft silks on his skin. For once the silence between him and Bilbo is not resentful.

Rather they share a sense of unease.

“How does it work,” Thorin inquires when they have been walking for a while. “Approving those deliveries?”

Bilbo’s lips quirk up in a grimace. “Usually it involves a great number of snide remarks, more or less subtle insults, with a light dose of shouting. Rather like the meeting you saw.” He tugs his sunhat back into place. “We have trade council meeting four times a year where any major decisions must be agreed upon. Smaller trade contracts are usually negotiated directly with those responsible.”

Thorin nods attentively, curious despite himself. “With Erebor?”

“Hasn’t been a council decision for some years, but once this,” he gestures to the store houses behind them, “comes to light, it will be.”

Something cold runs down Thorin’s spine. “What would happen?”

“I don’t know,” Bilbo shrugs. “Some would like vote to freeze trade relations entirely.” When Thorin jerks at that, Bilbo hurries to continue: “That would still leave Erebor free to buy its stock directly from Greenwood, Dale, or any other region.”

But the Greenwood elves will ask for an even higher price. Dale’s closeness to Erebor means its markets are already flooded with gems and jewelry from the mountain. And the rich fields of Gondor are quite distant - purchasing sufficient stocks from there will be difficult, considering there are many depending on those fields.

“Which would be quite expensive for us,” Thorin concludes quietly.

“Eh,” Bilbo shrugs. “With some luck you could convince the folks down in Gondor to give you a better price, or look toward Rhûn. But in all honesty, I doubt the Thain would allow the trade to be frozen entirely.”

Thorin swallows down a sudden clout of dread. The winter shipment is, he knows, of central importance for Erebor’s survival during those cold months.

“Won't he?” Thorin asks, gazing at the endless green fields around them with quiet despair. With the lacking payment determined - and some stones may be counterfeit and who knows how long this has been going on - the Shire can easily stop their deliveries.

Bilbo purses his lips as the wind plays with his hair. The fluffy white clouds overhead suddenly look like rain. “He won't. We will need to investigate, redraw the contract… They may demand a penalty payment.”

He shrugs. “But as we pride ourselves in our ability to grow things, letting anybody go hungry sits ill with all of us.”

It’s an echo of what Bilbo shouted at Lobelia. Perhaps it is true that despite their calculated politics, the hobbits do not care to see the rest of the world starve.

Thorin quietly digests that as they walk along the road back toward Hobbiton proper. Smoke rises from chimneys, and Thorin finds his perspective has shifted. He can still see the splendor, all those window frames cut from gold.

But set among all the thriving greenery, all the riches seem merely a part of the picture. Those bright red roses so lovingly grown do rival the ruby door decorations in their beauty. And the wide field of blooming sunflowers shines as bright as the gold in Erebor’s treasury ever did.

“I think I see,” Thorin says quietly.

Bilbo glances at him in surprise. For a moment a cutting reply regarding Thorin’s earlier blindness lies on his lips. But it tastes bitter, so Bilbo swallows the words.

“Sorting this out will not be pretty,” he warns.

Thorin frowns. “If I can, I want to help. The dwarves of Erebor are my kin and if there is a plot going on, they need to be warned.”

Bilbo glances at him for a long moment, assessing Thorin quietly. But if any misgivings remain, he does not voice them and instead nods. “Very well.”

The rest of their walk is spent in silence. But for once the air is not bristling with tensions or anger. Instead a sense of uneasy peace has fallen - as they both suddenly find themselves on the same side of a conflict.

As they near the bridge Bilbo is called away by one of his numerous acquaintances. Thorin continues to Bag End, his thoughts turning. If there is indeed somebody harming Erebor by messing with its payment, the King needs to know.

Thus Thorin sends an urgent message to his siblings, father, and grandfather - perhaps they can quickly resolve this. 

* * *

 

Summer begins to end with a last bout of stifling heat and a series of thunderstorms following on its tail. Bilbo, too, eyes the sky with worry. The Shire titters with gossip and weather forecasts. All Thorin hears everywhere he goes are discussions about grain – bring it in now, later, which crops first, which should last longer.

The bodies of the Worrywart family are delivered from Gondor and Thorin joins Bilbo as they attend the funeral. It’s a solemn affair, and it makes Thorin wonder if this is the first time the hobbits had to bury one of their envoys.

He suspects it is not.

For all their power and influence, hobbits are few in number and not made to fight. He hasn’t seen a trace of magic either, and starts to wonder if it even exists. Looking at the rolling hills and the now red and yellow trees and the crowd of black-clad hobbits, he cannot help thinking that over in Erebor they ended up knowing only half of the story.

They are on their way home, when somebody begins to shout Bilbo’s name.

Thorin and Bilbo turn around to see a child running after them. He appears vaguely familiar – though Thorin can’t entirely place him – with flying dark curls and wide blue eyes.

“Frodo, what is it?” Bilbo asks, surprised.

The child needs a moment to catch his breath; and then surprisingly turns his eyes to Thorin. “I wanted to ask Mister Thorin something.”

Bilbo blinks. Glances to Thorin from the corner of his eye, but Thorin is just as surprised as the hobbit it. “I’m sure you can.”

“Yes! Mister Thorin, the boys are saying you have a sword? And that you know how to fight?” the young boy bursts out with excitement, “Can you teach me?”

Thorin blinks.

“Frodo, what on earth is this about?” Bilbo interjects sharply, but Frodo’s eyes remain glued on Thorin. “Do your parents know about this? Who even gave you that idea!”

“Please, Mister Thorin,” Frodo says, and Thorin feels his heart weakening. His nephews used to adopt the exact same expression, and he misses them fiercely.

“Why do you want to learn this?” he asks gently.

Frodo squares his shoulders in determination. “My mother wants to go to Gondor! And I heard it’s dangerous, so I want to know!”

“Primula wants to…” Bilbo echoes, surprised.

Frodo turns to him with a sharp nod. “She says we ought to visit uncle Dodinas.”

“Does she… well,” Bilbo trails off. He glances over to Thorin. “Then, if your mother agrees…”

“If your mother agrees, I can teach you,” Thorin states calmly. He can see a smile beginning to spread over the boy’s face, and it warms his heart.

“Great!” Frodo exclaims happily. “I’ll ask her!” And with that he races off.

Thorin can feel Bilbo’s eyes on him. “Is that alright?” Bilbo asks warily.

Thorin smiles. “I taught both my nephews,” he replies. He will be able to teach a young hobbit. And the prospect of it actually feels good.

“Well…” Bilbo shakes his head with a small smile of his own, and Thorin realizes that they both have changed. They haven’t sniped or shouted at each other in a long time, and Thorin feels the bubbling anger in his chest has lessened.

Perhaps the Shire has changed him, perhaps there is magic at work after all.

But he cannot deny that as autumn falls he begins to feel at home here.

* * *

 

Time passes. Thorin ends up teaching Frodo – the lad is not necessarily talented, but very enthusiastic about it. One time when Bilbo returns early from one meeting or another Frodo attempts to make him join – but Bilbo raises his hands and shakes his head.

“I’ll stay far, far away from any sharp blades,” he says with a chuckle, “That’s the best defense we have.”

It’s said lightly, but the words stay with Thorin. Another morning as he comes across Bilbo, he does end up asking – and Bilbo confirms that hobbits do not know how to fight. He does not mention magic either.

From then on, they start talking about different things. The situation in the south. Their nephews. The use of gems and jewels. And little by little the air between them continues to shift.

* * *

 

One evening in mid-autumn, Bilbo knocks at Thorin’s door. Letters arrived earlier this day; including quite a few lengthy ones from Erebor.

“Thorin, I would like to speak with you on something,” he calls, “I will be in the dining room for a bit.”

Unease and curiosity roll in Thorin’s stomach when he - with his hair freshly braided - wanders over to the dining room. The remains of a hearty dinner still sit on the table, and Bilbo is chewing on a peach while studying a large parchment before him.

“You wanted to speak to me,” Thorin says in lieu of a greeting.

Bilbo looks up, and Thorin catches sight of shadows under his eyes. The perfect facade the hobbit usually presents has vanished; instead Thorin spies numerous small imperfections. Wrinkles in the collar or his shirt, juice stains on his cuffs.

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo shakes his head to himself. “You perhaps noticed that I also received letters from, I believe, your entire family…” Thorin hadn’t known. He’d thought his grandfather had written Bilbo on trade matters - he can’t imagine what letters Dis, Frerin and Bilbo might have exchanged.

“They, well. The idea of visiting has been brought up.” Bilbo glances down at his papers. “Due to my duties I cannot travel, and I have been told that your nephews are too young for this journey yet.”

“So you would have to travel alone,” Bilbo concludes, and Thorin freezes, thunderstruck.

What? He will get a chance to go back to Erebor? On his own?

When he looks at Bilbo again, he finds the hobbit has been watching his reaction closely. “As it will be winter soon, I’m afraid you won’t be able to travel until spring.”

“Furthermore,” Bilbo cautions and here his voice grows hard once more. “You must return within the year. I realize that this marriage is not what either of us wanted and that we may both be happier apart. But this is larger than ourselves.”

It is strange that Thorin’s heart twinges at those words. Certainly, the marriage is not what he wanted. But he has grown fond – of Frodo, at least.

“I understand,” Thorin nods his agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're both currently somewhat swamped with work, but hope you enjoyed this chapter, and would love feedback. Either here or on tumblr! ([iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com) | [paranoidfridge](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com) )


	5. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the arrival of winter, fewer letters reach the Shire and the world seems to grow quiet. Bilbo and Thorin have started to get along better, helped by Frodo - but that peace is interrupted by the arrival of ill news from Ered Luin. But the ensuing actions end up with Thorin and Bilbo developing deeper affections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point where it gets good. XD

Winter arrives in the Shire in a flurry of late autumn storms and freezing winds blowing down from the north. Thorin now is glad for the thick furs and luxurious carpets of Bag End. Together with a sheer inexhaustible reserve of wood and tinder the smial does not get cold at all. 

Not that the cold outside is bad compared to the winters Thorin saw in Erebor. After the first storms have passed snowmen and other creations appear along the main roads of Hobbiton, and once of twice Thorin spies adult and senior hobbits building their own snowmen. 

Frodo very enthusiastically demands Thorin join him after another training session (the lad does his best, but hobbits are not cut out for battle. Thus Thorin focuses on dodging, defense, and recognising openings). While Thorin is hesitant, he finds he cannot say no to Frodo. And this Bilbo returns to the two of them building snowman no.3 in Bag End’s front yard. 

“Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo cheerfully exclaims. “Look!” 

Bilbo smiles indulgently and compliments the sloppy snow creatures - and when he looks up his eyes meet Thorin's. His smile turns wry, but it's an honest emotion and Thorin’s heart warms.

“Now, that is a grand feat indeed,” Bilbo says, “How about some hot chocolate as a reward?” 

Frodo cheers. 

And soon they all sit in Bag End’s warm parlour, sipping hot chocolate. Thorin has to admit fascination - he has known chocolate as an exotic treat from the south. This variation - warm and liquid and refined with spices and dried fruit - is delicious indeed. 

Obviously it's another testament to the wealth of the Shire. But in the middle of winter, with most roads closed, Thorin finds it nearly a relief to forget about the troubles out there for once.

Few letters now travel from east to west, and for once Thorin is quite glad. Hopefully he will reach Erebor before they send out the next load of gemstones. He wants to check himself if the stones sent out of Erebor are faulty or whether somebody on the journey is profiting off it. 

Today, though, this is all quite far away. 

And remains at distance until another morning comes, when Bilbo joins him in the kitchen with a letter in hand.

“Thorin,” Bilbo draws him from his rich breakfast, the hobbit’s voice oddly hollow. “The blue sickness - what is it and can it be cured with Halloweed?” 

“Blue sickness?” Thorin echoes, straightening at the term he hasn’t heard in ages. “It, yes, Halloweed’s the only known cure. As a sickness, it is quite similar to what you call pneumonia, I believe. Horrible cough, fever, and can easily be deadly among the elderly and the very young.”

Bilbo’s frown has deepened, and Thorin belatedly puts two and two together. “Where did it occur?”

“Ered Luin,” Bilbo waves the crumpled piece of parchment into Thorin’s direction. “The letter arrived this morning. They don’t have many cases now, but one collapsed at the central market and now they’re afraid it’s already spread.”

And with the onset of winter, Thorin realizes, the herb will be unavailable but at the southernmost markets. 

“Does the Shire have stores?” he asks, as the horrible implications flash through his mind. Erebor has not seen an epidemic like this in recent centuries. But the memories of the plagues that wiped out entire mountains linger in their collective knowledge. 

“Barely any,” Bilbo replies, now looking at something Thorin can’t see. “It’s useless to us hobbits, so we don’t keep it. I know they have bigger stocks down in Gondor; usually we get it from there since it’s the cheapest.”

“Gondor is too far,” Thorin replies sharply. Half of Ered Luin would die before help from Gondor could arrive.

“I know,” Bilbo returns, his eyes now back on Thorin. “I’ll speak with the Thain. There must be someone closer.”

He turns on his heel and is out of the door before Thorin can say anything. So he stares after the small form stomping down the snow-covered road with only a thin cloak thrown over his shoulders. His muffler, Thorin realizes, remains on the coat hanger.

Thorin hesitates for a moment.

Then he runs after him.

“You forgot this,” he says when Bilbo stares at him in wide-eyed surprise, and Thorin feels the blood rise to his cheeks. It’s not a gesture of affection, he wants to explain. It’s a thank-you for caring for the dwarves of Ered Luin. 

But the words won’t come, so instead Thorin says. “It’s a bit of a way to Tuckborough, so take care.”

Bilbo looks just as flabbergasted as Thorin feels. “Thank you,” the hobbits stammers.

And as he hurries off, Thorin looks after him and wonders at himself. His feelings have changed - he can acknowledge that Bilbo is not the utterly evil creature he first made him out to be. But it appears recognizing that is not the end of the shift in his heart. 

* * *

Bilbo returns late. Darkness has fallen hours ago and despite knowing that the roads in the Shire are perhaps the safest in all of Middle Earth, Thorin couldn’t help worrying. So he had cooked dinner as well as he could, cleaned up a little.

And constantly found himself watching the road outside, waiting for the door to open. 

He is close to turning in for the night when the door finally is opened. Bilbo stumbles in, nose and ears red from the frost and with snowflakes clinging to his hair and coat. Thorin is on his feet and walking toward him before he has quite realized what he is doing. 

He stops an arm’s length away and Bilbo catches himself on the coat rack, shivering violently as the door behind him closes. Water drips from the coat Bilbo hurriedly loses, allowing it to drop to the ground in an uncharacteristic display of carelessness. Something in Thorin's chest clenches, but the words are stuck in his throat.

Bilbo wearily begins to unbutton the inner coat and directs a tired gaze at Thorin.

“Thorin,” he mutters, lips moving slower from what must be the cold. Shire winters may be mild, Thorin knows, but nights can still be deadly.

“It'll be settled,” Bilbo mumbles, as the coat joins the cloak in the floor. He sways with exhaustion and this time Thorin reaches out to gently grasp his elbow. 

Bilbo doesn't protest and allows Thorin to lead him into the well-warmed living room with the large armchairs. At least Bilbo’s clothes feel dry, so perhaps it is mostly exhaustion.

“What happened?” Thorin asks quietly. Bilbo looks as if he'd rather close his eyes, but responds after a moment. 

“I tried to find Mirabella - she is the one with the best connections to Rivendell - but she's in Bockenburg for the season,” Bilbo begins. “So I wanted to speak with the mayor about any local stores, but he claimed I was unauthorised to view those lists.” 

Bilbo reaches up to rub at his forehead. “We argued quite a while and I'm afraid I'll have to remind him that he isn't authorized to withhold information from me…”

“Anyway, by teatime I did manage to track down missus Merryweather. She doesn't know about any other stocks, but she's fairly certain Isengard has stores of Halloweed. Usually they trade it to Rohan, but there hasn't been a strong demand in recent years.”

“Aren't the roads to Isengard impassable?” Thorin inquires with no small degree of concern. Already the roads from the Shire to Bree seem completely closed.

Bilbo sighs and seems to shrink into himself. “They are to most, but some in Middle Earth don't care much about weather.” 

“Orcs,” Thorin guesses and something in him hardens. He stands, takes a step back. Ered Luin, saved through orcs?

Bilbo doesn't look up. “Should there be no other option, yes.” 

Thorin takes a deep breath. The familiar kernel of anger underneath his heart has lit up again. No dwarf would like to live, knowing they own their lives to orcs.

“It would be terribly expensive and difficult to organise,” Bilbo says, quietly. “Saruman and Ered Luin refuse to trade with orcs directly, so we'd need to hire trustworthy middlemen. Which is nearly impossible when treating with orcs. And the orcs themselves…” He breaks off, shaking his head. 

“I do believe they listen to you hobbits,” Thorin says and the ice in his voice his audible. A part of him cringes - haven't they moved beyond that?

Bilbo flinches (months ago he'd carefully hidden any emotion from Thorin) and looks to the flickering fire. “Not truly,” he replies quietly. “They don't feel bound to any contract and frequently break the rules. I don't know how Lobelia got them to cooperate in first place.”

Thorin can't fathom cooperating with orcs. Despite the anger that coils in his chest at the notion alone (all that pain the orcs brought upon his people), he forces himself to remain calm. It's not Bilbo's fault - and from his expression he isn't too fond of the orcs either. 

“What will you do?” He asks instead.

Bilbo runs a tired hand through his hair. “Wait for a reply from Isengard. Hope the roads remain open and somebody from Rohan is willing to take the job.” 

A long and difficult trip in summer. In winter it’s a true dare.

“They'll charge a high price, too,” Thorin replies.

Bilbo turns and glares at him from below shining curls, but there is no heat in it and the fireshine seems to exaggerate the dark circles underneath his eyes. “I'm aware.”

“Can Ered Luin pay for it?”

Bilbo looks away again. “Not immediately, no,” he says quietly. “If business is good, they may be able to pay it back in a year or two.” 

But not quickly because the work done by the dwarves of Ered Luin goes toward affording their food stocks and daily lives and the Blue Mountains are not blessed with an overflowing treasury that could easily afford such an emergency. Thorin swallows glumly. 

“Obviously, it would be faster if they paid directly to Isengard,” Bilbo says. “Saruman likes dwarven crafts - but he's also in for a profit and while the dwarves work to pay him back, they would need to indebt themselves to afford food. Meanwhile, amassing dwarven crafts Saruman would easily force down the price and the dwarves would get less for their money.” 

Thorin blinks. “I thought Saruman…” The White wizard is well respected, after all.

Bilbo shakes his head. “It may not be him, but whoever runs the treasury of Isengard is rather interested in amassing riches and power. Not unlike Erebor.”

Thorin flinches guilty. But to his knowledge, at least, Erebor never withheld help from those in dire need. 

“I'll buy the Halloweed from Saruman,” Bilbo declares. “Should the council agree, I might be able to buy it on behalf of the Shire - it may mean granting him more favorable terms for a while, but we can sustain that.”

* * *

After this, they wait for the reply. A rare set of letters arrives from Erebor, but no progress has been made in regards to the rubies. Dis and Frerin are respectively outraged and worried in that regard, Frerin even going so far as to wonder if there may not be a conspiracy within Erebor’s highest ranks.

The King, for the first time writing on that issue, shows no concern at all. Rather, he rants extensively on the cruelty of hobbits - helping Ered Luin, he insists, only works to further their power. And who knows if they did not cause the illness themselves.

Thorin frowns as he reads his grandfather’s warning. Do not fall to the hobbits’ bewitchment, the King under the Mountain proclaims, his words dripping with disdain.

Thorin folds the parchment unhappily gazing at the richly decorated and comfortable chamber around him. A fire flickers merrily in the fireplace, there is food awaiting in the kitchen.

And he finds himself unsure. Only a few months ago he'd have agreed with his grandfather without a doubt. Today, he recalls Bilbo’s anxiousness and concern and wonders if that could truly have been a lie.

* * *

At noon - about ten days later - Thorin is just preparing his lunch, Bilbo bursts through the door, parchment in hand and eyes shining with excitement. Snow clings to his hair, cloak and scarf, but he doesn't seem to mind at all.

“Thorin!” he exclaims, “I got the reply! Isengard’s going to sell!” 

A bout of abrupt relief hits Thorin. “That's great!” he says, while Bilbo begins to unwrap his scarf. 

“And not even for that much money,” Bilbo continues. “I mean he'd still rather have the favorable terms, but he'll also sell without these.”

He beams up at Thorin who finds himself smiling in turn. A voice of caution in him remains. “What about the transport?”

“A few of the couriers from Rohan are willing to make the trip,” Bilbo answers. “Once we've got the order completed, they will set out at once.”

“How soon is that?” Thorin asks, wondering if another twenty days or more will pass. In this case winter will be half over before they've gotten the badly needed medicine to Ered Luin.

“Well, I'll talk with my grandfather and several of the clan heads tomorrow,” Bilbo replies. “And then send the letter out either late tomorrow night or early. If the weather holds I might be able to send it by pigeon.” 

* * *

They set out with the sunrise during the next morning. Thorin finds himself accompanying Bilbo. He is a dwarf, he will plead the cause of his distant kin.

Yet to his consternation, Willbald Bolger down in his smial near the river sits back in his overstuffed armchair and twists his gold-framed glasses in visible distress. “I mean no offense,” he says quietly, and Thorin doesn’t miss how he looks to Bilbo, “But with the trade being what it is … the deals with dwarves barely break even, if we allow a deficit to build up with Isengard…” 

He shakes his head.

Thorin’s blood runs cold, while Bilbo leans forward. “Will you veto it?”

Willbald glances outside. “No, no. Just … I’m abstaining.”

And he is not the only one to do so. 

Doramira Harfoot puts it more bluntly. “I know it’s for a good cause and it’s going to save lots of lives. But if we allow a trade deficit to ensue, someone’s not going to have enough food come next year.”

Bilbo, by now showing first signs of exhaustion, but so does Thorin. They have been trudging from home to home for the entire morning, barely even stopping for Elevensies. Second breakfast was skipped entirely. 

“But I’d not mind financing this officially,” Doramira adds. “Just not on the terms suggested.”

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins more or less slams the door in Bilbo’s face. Rudow Bracegirdle is a little more diplomatic. “As long as those dwarves keep cheating us, I don’t see why we should help them.”

So by the time noon rolls around they’ve collected one veto, three nos, five abstains, and two voices supporting their endeavor. Thorin is sick of it already as they sit down on the Green Dragon’s satin-covered chairs. 

Clouds have moved in to cover the sky. Likely it will snow soon. 

“How many more families do we have to visit?” Thorin asks, wondering if he should truly come along. His presence, so far, he thinks has done little good. Most hobbits still eye him with a good measure of suspicion - and he may not trust them either, but it’s become tiresome. 

Bilbo sighs, wrapping his fingers around a richly decorated china cup filled with steaming mulled wine. “I think we can give up and head over to Tookborough. The Thain must know, but we won’t get the favorable terms. Too many nos. And the veto… if we could only clear up the ruby issue.”

Thorin frowns. “Nothing new on that?”

“From whom?” Bilbo grimaces unhappily. “We barely receive communication from Erebor, and my last two missives were both unanswered. Now, they may have gotten lost, but …”

“It feels as if there is something going on,” Thorin sighs. “It would be much easier if we could just go there…”

Bilbo glances up, tilting his head. “Are you sure that won't put you in danger?” he asks quietly.

Thorin blinks in surprise. “...why?”

“Well,” Bilbo pushes his nearly empty mug away from him, “Whoever is doing this clearly cares little for potential consequences and fallout. So far the harm they have caused has been indirect, though I wonder if they'd shy away from harming somebody working to stop them.”

Thorin stares at Bilbo. He's right - but more than that, he spies a faint flush colouring Bilbo’s cheeks. And the averted eyes speak a language of their own - the hobbit worries for Thorin. 

“But I feel it's my duty to figure this out,” Thorin calmly returns. “Erebor is my home, and they will suffer from this - I cannot stand by.” 

Bilbo’s lips twitch. “Who knows,” he says, “Maybe things will have settled before you go back in spring.”

It's a nice wish, Thorin thinks, though highly unlikely. Still, he smiles at Bilbo too. “Maybe.”

“Well, then let's go and talk to the Thain about the Halloweed,” Bilbo announces and pushes himself to his feet. “And we’ll have to discuss your trip next spring, too.”

* * *

To Thorin’s surprise, the Thain is far more amenable to the medicine delivery than the idea of Thorin journeying to Erebor. Regarding the first he agrees that half the leaf may be purchased from Hobbiton funds on a generous loan to the dwarves of Ered Luin. 

“The other half must come a private loan,” the Thain says and looks at Bilbo. It’s on Thorin's tongue to offer Erebor as a potential backer - but Erebor is far away, and Thorin recalls his grandfather being uncomfortably rigid about loans. 

“Very well,” Bilbo agrees easily. “I'll pay and once the roads open I'll settle the terms with Master Fram.” 

Lord Fram, whose policies more than once inspired Thror to creative rants, Thorin recalls. 

The Thain reaches out to put one wrinkled hand above Bilbo’s. “You do that,” he says with an affectionate smile, and then his face turns solemn again. 

“While I agree that the ruby matter must be resolved,” he says, “I'm not convinced a journey to Erebor is an apt measure. For one, the issue is theirs - they must resolve it. All we may do is exert pressure for Erebor to act.”

He raises a hand as Bilbo makes to protest, and mentions exactly the same doubts Bilbo voiced himself. Thorin swallows glumly - much as he is unwilling to imagine any dwarf in Erebor willing to harm him, he cannot entirely dismiss their fears. The prospect of visiting his home fades before Thorin’s eyes. Until Bilbo speaks up. 

“But grandfather,” he offers rather weakly, “Thorin can't only stay here forever. His entire family is in Erebor.”

And once again Thorin can only look at his husband and wonder if Bilbo had been this kind all along. 

The Thain’s features soften. “I'm aware, I'm merely uncertain if this is good timing. The decision is yours.”

* * *

It starts snowing a few days later. Another letter from Ered Luin comes, the situation has grown more dire. 

Bilbo bites down on his lower lip, but for now all they can do is wait until the Halloweed is delivered. 

And a fortnight later, when a layer of snow has built up and much of Hobbiton has moved inside, a group of riders arrives from the south. 

“The Rohan traders are willing to travel onward to Ered Luin,” Bilbo tells Thorin as he wanders in. Winter has grown bitterly cold, and Thorin holds the latest missive from Ered Luin - two more dwarves have passed. Two score are very sick. 

“I'm glad to hear it,” Thorin replies. “The Halloweed is direly needed.”

Bilbo grimaces. 

“What is the issue?” Thorin asks, as his insides twist with foreboding. 

“They don't know the road.” Bilbo hangs his cloak on the golden stand with a loud sigh and reaches up to fluff his hair. “And with the snow they're not confident they’ll find it.”

“Hire a guide,” Thorin quickly suggests.

“In summer that wouldn't be a problem,” Bilbo says, “but currently. Well, there are no dwarves in the Shire, the rangers have all retreated to Bree and further, and you won't find a hobbit willing to make the trip in this weather.”

It's on the tip of Thorin’s lips to say that for the right price they could certainly find a guide. But due to the wealth of the Shire, he abruptly isn't sure, and then he doesn't know whether any plot like that would work in time.

“So what happens now?” Will the hobbits sit on the weed until the weather clears? Dwarves will be dead then. 

Bilbo casts a glum look to the window. Snow lies on the windowsill outside and a shin-high layer covers the front yard. 

“I'll go,” he says quietly and Thorin whips around to stare at him. 

Outlines against the pale winter daylight that hobbit he married looks smaller and tension radiates from the lines of his body. 

“You?”

“I know the roads,” Bilbo says, “And the dwarves are my responsibility anyway. It shouldn't take too long - a fortnight, maybe two should the weather turn bad.”

Thorin growls. For some unknown reason, the idea of Bilbo wandering out there, basically unarmed, doesn't sit well with him. “Do you even know how to fight?”

Bilbo blinks. “These are safe lands. And the folks from Rohan are well-equipped.” 

Which won't be of any use to him should he get separated from them.

“And the dwarves of Ered Luin are my kin,” Thorin shoots back. “Would you ban me from looking out for them?”

* * *

Setting out from Hobbiton on a cool, sunny early winter day is a small group of five riders from Rohan, a hobbit, and a dwarf. Despite the snow their little group makes good time traveling. Thick cloaks and furs keep riders and ponies warm, and Thorin is pleasantly surprised to find they will be staying at inns for all of their six-day journey. 

The first day takes them to the northwestern border of the Shire. What must be verdant fields in summer lies covered under a thick layer of white, offset only by dark, leafless trees. But these do fade as the ground grows rocky and their path begins to wind around hills. Thick pine trees line the road, and Thorin finds himself reaching for his sword more than once in the oncoming darkness.

But they never meet orcs or bandits. The Shire is too safe for this. And the hobbits - despite their plump and short figures - too powerful. 

One lone wolf pack is scared off by a volley of decently aimed arrows. The riders from Rohan aren’t too bad, Thorin has to admit. Their accuracy probably doesn’t rival the skill of Erebor’s archers - but they do a good job from horseback. 

“Thorin, I was wondering,” Bilbo begins on the morning as they pack up. Today they’ll reach Ered Luin, and Thorin feels both anxious and elated. “Could you catch that sickness too?”

Thorin flounders for a moment. Tries to recall everything he knows - the symptoms, the cases. 

Bilbo purses his lips. “I think I’d rather you stayed here,” he says. “Whatever stores of Halloweed the Shire retains are negligible.” 

Thorin blinks, outraged and flabbergasted. “Stay behind?” Several other patrons of the inn turn their heads at his outburst. 

“We’ve been on the road for a bit, and since it’s a dwarven sickness there isn’t any likelihood the men or I will catch it. But you might, and maybe that’s a risk we shouldn’t take.”

Thorin takes a deep breath. Straightens and glares down his nose at Bilbo who stares back at him evenly. A spark of the old fury wells up in Thorin’s chest - he’s not going to be ordered around like some servant. 

“Do you -”

“Thorin, please,” Bilbo interrupts before Thorin can truly begin, “I know you want to go there. And under other circumstances, it would be perfect. Just now…”

“I understand,” Thorin grinds out, the anger in his chest warring with the voice of reason in his head, “however, I am also quite familiar with the sickness, and know that I am at a very small risk for contracting it.”

Bilbo exhales and looks away first. “Alright. Alright,” he shakes his head, as if trying to dispell his own doubts. “Well, then, let’s go.”

* * *

It turns out Bilbo indeed needn't have worried. Their small company is warmly welcomed by Fram himself, as well as the mayors of two nearby human settlements and a number of important dwarves from Ered Luin. The sick have been quarantined deep within the mountain; both to keep the sickness from spreading, and because those parts are the warmest.

Thorin stays in the background during the initial talks. Despite being a dwarf, it turns out he doesn't know that much about the Blue Mountains or their way of life. Certainly, from what he can see this mountain is not filled with luxuries the way Erebor is. But it's warm, comfortable, and the dwarves here are cheerful despite the harsh winter.

“We're truly indepted to you,” Fram declares once again over dinner the next night. “To make the journey yourself…” He shakes his head. 

Bilbo's cheek flush. “It was a matter of practicality,” he replies. “The caravan from Rohan is the one who travelled far, I merely acted as a guide for those last meters.”

“Still, I believe many would have considered traveling this far beyond their duty,” Fram returns and Thorin wonders what Erebor would have done.

He can see Frerin making a trip like this. Dis is a little too crafty - she'd have found somebody to go for her. But he can't envision his grandfather even contemplating it and it makes something in his chest ache. 

Maybe hobbits aren't quite so evil. Certainly, they have firmly established their power here - but as far as Thorin can see Ered Luin is not suffering for it, and he wonders if it is truly such an unbalanced relationship. 

He looks to Bilbo and finds him smiling warmly. “I consider it my duty,” he says quietly. 

Later when he and Thorin have retired to their contemporary guest quarters in Ered Luin, Bilbo repeats it with conviction.

“I feel it is my duty,” he says when Thorin tries to figure out what the hobbits stand to gain from this intervention. “It's not about gaining anything material. It's more … in a moral sense? I mean I know quite a number of these dwarves and do consider them if not friends then acquaintances. Isn't it normal to help out when you can then?” 

Thorin blinks. “Politics usually don't much care for personal feelings,” he returns without true vigor.

A sad smile crosses Bilbo’s face. “Isn't that the truth?” he agrees. “Most of the times, indeed, that's the way of things. But I think once lives are on the line, it may be alright to discard the profit calculation sheets or the political aims for a bit.”

Thorin finds his own lips quirking in return. “Yeah, I suppose so.” 

Bilbo stretches and yawns. “Alright, shall we sleep? It was a long day after all and we probably won't stay here all that long.”

* * *

It turns out they do stay six days. Long enough to see the Halloweed cure the first dwarf and Bilbo and Thorin take their leave among many thankful words of goodbye.

Fram promised to repay the hobbits in general and Bilbo in person richly. Bilbo declines with a chuckle - seeing everybody healthy and back in their feet again is reward enough he claims.

All Thorin can think is that the atmosphere in Ered Luin is very different from Erebor. Of course, Erebor never had hobbits coming to her rescue.

But Erebor never needed rescuing and the hobbits only met them as trade partners. Thorin doesn't know if the dwarves negotiating for Erebor had ever dared to address past grain shortages. 

Hobbits aren't evil, he thinks as the snow-covered mountains of Ered Luin fade from view and their small group turns southeast on wintery lands. And maybe they aren't all that power-hungry either. 

They part ways with the group from Rohan at the borders of the Shire. They will continue south from there, and joke about maybe even making it home in time for the midwinter celebrations. Their horses loaded with coins and beautifully carved jewellery, they smile and wave, their enthusiasm for getting home tangible.

Thorin, looking toward the snow-covered fields of the Shire, feels a pull too. He isn't certain if he can call Bag End his home. But here, in the harsh winter weather, he does recall its warm rooms with a sense of longing.

They don't talk much as they ride, both lost in their own thoughts. Bilbo steers them east without a doubt and they don't stop for food or rest until the sun begins to sink on the western horizon.

“We could turn left and find a place to stay. There's an inn not too far from here,” Bilbo suggests gesturing behind snow-covered hills. It's not an inviting landscape.

“How far until Hobbiton?” Thorin inquires. 

Bilbo frowns and turns to gaze east. “Not that far. If we push, we would likely make it slightly past nightfall.”

For a moment Thorin wonders at their respective condition. He's exhausted from riding for days, but the prospect of reaching Bag End tonight makes him want to continue.

“Do you think you can make it?”

Bilbo grimaces at him. “Of course,” he proclaims, and follows that statement moments later with a carefully aimed snowball. 

Thorin sputters. “What, hey!”

Bilbo is bent over in the saddle, laughing, and Thorin rides over to a huge bush to scoop up a handful of snow himself. It sails high over Bilbo’s head who laughs even harder.

“Don't even try it,” he jeers. “We hobbits are undefeated in our aim.” He emphasizes his point by lobbing another snowball right at Thorin's nose. 

“In that case let me challenge to a duel. I could best you and your pony,” Thorin declares with a toothy grin as he wipes the snow from his face.

Bilbo’s pony seems rather alarmed at the prospect and trots a little faster. Bilbo himself gives him a long head-to-toe glance and says “I don't doubt that.”

And Thorin abruptly feels a little warm. Bilbo’s eyes on him like this - it makes his blood stir in a way it hasn't for a while.

Bilbo meanwhile has made sure to guide the ponies back into the road and likely knows nothing of Thorin’s inner turmoil. Even in the dim light his hair shines brightly and underneath those fancy cloaks he's a comely figure. Certainly plump compared to dwarves, and perhaps Thorin had lived in the Shire for too long, but he's beginning to see Bilbo as somebody rather attractive. 

And he no longer flinches at the thought.

Perhaps this is the elusive magic of hobbits. Perhaps it isnt spells and great power, but slowly changing perceptions. But even so, Thorin thinks as he follows Bilbo, knowing they just rendered a great service to Ered Luin, knowing that the Shire’s doubts on the rubies weren't unfounded, it all isn't so bad.

Maybe magic changed his perspective. But maybe it was just the natural consequence of seeing it all from another point of view.

They reach Hobbiton a while after night and make a short stop at the Green Dragon in order to hand the ponies over to the inn keeper. Tomorrow they'll be transferred back to the farms. Now all that's left for Bilbo and Thorin is to go home.

For once the short road from the Green Dragon to Bag End looks endless. But up on the hill Thorin can see warm lights flicker in the windows and his frozen bones ache with longing. 

“Finally,” Bilbo breathes, moving stiffly next to him. Five days on horseback left their traces. Even the most padded saddle doesn't help. 

Thorin grunts in agreement, his own legs feeling tired and uncooperative. He wishes he could lie down right here - but Bag End isn't far now. 

So they turn toward the small bridge crossing the half-frozen stream and dodge to the right as a group of drunken hobbits wandering homeward from the Green Dragon sways toward them. The water gurgles peacefully, the hobbits wrapped in thick cloaks laugh and Thorin soaks in the leisure atmosphere of the winter night.

And maybe it's his elbow that brushes Bilbo.

Abruptly an aborted shout echoes to his right. Thorin twists around, only to see Bilbo slip, stagger, and then fall over backward toward the river. He reaches out, somebody shouts Bilbo’s name, Thorin’s fingers close around empty air. 

With a loud splash and a crack the thin ice gives and Bilbo falls right into the gurgling, dark water. Panic surges in Thorin, he throws himself forward, his mind racing because freezing water in winter is deadly and he needs to be fast and -

Bilbo sits up, gasping for air, stark white and utterly soaked. The water barely comes up to his waist.

Thorin’s heart shudders with relief, the panic momentarily receding. 

“Mister Baggins!” one of the suddenly sober hobbit exclaims and one of her companions carefully begins to inch their way forward over the slippery rocks. “Bilbo, are you alright?”

Thorin unfreezes and steps forward himself. The stones under his boots are slippery with ice and water, and it's no surprise Bilbo lost his footing. Even with his well-made boots Thorin struggles to retain his balance. 

“Bilbo, are you alright?” He calls out to and Bilbo, after a moment of sitting in the water utterly dumbfounded, starts shaking badly as well as attempting to find his feet. 

“I-I-I-I’mmmmm f-f-fi-n-n-e,” Bilbo manages, teeth clacking together hard as his waterlogged cloak hinders his attempts at getting up. He's paling rapidly too, and Thorin's heart clenches at the sight.

But then he's there, and he can easily lift Bilbo to his feet. The soaked cloak already feels icy, and Thorin resolves to get them home as soon as possible. But first he manoeuvres Bilbo carefully out of the water. 

“You alright, Bilbo?” another hobbit asks, the group having stayed to watch. Bilbo opens his mouth to reply, though since he's shivering to hard, he ends up nodding instead.

“We should hurry,” Thorin reminds him gently. And then inclines his head toward the other hobbits. “Thank you."

He guides Bilbo across the bridge and once they’re out of sight, he stops and crouches down. “Get on.”

Bilbo flusters for a moment. Then he agrees and climbs onto Thorin’s back, soaked and cold and shivering so hard he can barely speak.

Thorin hurries up the hill as concern rises in his chest. Bilbo had seemed impervious to the cold on their trip, but then he had warm furs. The paling fingertips Thorin can see fill him with unease, and he finds himself recalling how to best restore warmth to frozen limbs.

They half-tumble through Bag End’s door and Thorin barely remembers to kick his boots off. Bilbo clings firmly to his back, though except for faint noises he doesn't respond anymore and it sends a spike of fear down Thorin’s spine. 

Due to their prolonged absence the smial has cooled, too. Thorin hesitates a moment before decided to carry Bilbo to the living room - he did stack fresh firewood there, and the numerous blankets will be available, too. He crouched down on the carpet before the dark fireplace.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says as calmly as he can while he gently loosens Bilbo’s death grip on his shoulders. “Bilbo, you need to take those clothes off. They're soaked, they'll only make you colder now.”

Bilbo blinks sluggishly at him, though he remains sitting upright and his fingers come up to fumble at the buttons of his cloak. It's enough for now, Thorin thinks and turns to the fireplace. 

The dim light in Bag End is no trouble to a dwarf, so Thorin does find the matches fast. His own fingers protest the movement, stiff from the cold and the freezing now water, but he grits his teeth and ignores the pricks and needles running painfully through his fingers. 

A small flame flickers to life and Thorin breathes out in relief. Just as the warm fire in the fireplace surges up, a wet splash behind him marks Bilbo's success in struggling out of his soaked cloak. 

The hobbit’s face is a terrible pallor, nearly grey and his lips blue, and his fingers shiver badly as they attempt to undo the dozens of tiny buttons on his vest.

“Bilbo?” Thorin moves over to him and hesitates. The hobbit slowly moves his head up, glazed golden eyes looking questioningly at Thorin. “Let me help,” Thorin says and reaches out.

Slowly so Bilbo might slap his hands away should they be unwelcome. Instead Bilbo allows his own hands to drop; his entire posture slumps, and a faint “thank you” reaches Thorin's ears.

“Don't thank me,” Thorin says calmly as his fingers begin to work on freezing buttons. “You'd do the same for me after all.”

That and more, Thorin thinks and his chest fills with a sense of warmth. He gently strips Bilbo from his sodden and freezing coat, then the vest. Bilbo’s slow and sluggish responses worry him - despite the fire his lips remains blue. 

In the end, Thorin can only think of one thing to do: sharing body heat. He unbuttons his own shirt, and presses Bilbo’s naked form against his own chest. This close he can feel the cold emanating from Bilbo’s pallid skin, can sense Bilbo’s uneven heartbeat. 

He grabs one of the many blankets and wraps it around both of them, and rubs Bilbo’s back. It should work, he tells himself, it should work. He can’t allow himself to think of what else could happen, can’t bear to imagine any other outcome. 

Bilbo’s head rests in the crook of his neck, unresponsive and limp, and Thorin’s chest clenches with worry. He does not know how long he sits there, how long he tries to rub warmth and life back into cold hands and arms. Only at some point does Bilbo’s breathing steady, and a faint warmth return to his body. 

Eventually, Bilbo stirs. Blinks up at Thorin in confusion.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin says, abruptly very aware of their unclothed state, “you were so cold and I …”

A tired smile tugs at Bilbo’s lips. “It's fine,” he murmurs, and underneath the blanket warm fingers brush past Thorin's thighs, sending heat to his cheeks. “Thank you.”

“It was no trouble,” Thorin replies, automatically tightening his hold on Bilbo. They fit together quite well, he thinks. He likes how Bilbo’s skin feels against his own. 

“Then let me trouble you with one more request,” Bilbo says, “As comfortable as this is, I believe there is a wonderful bed awaiting somewhere around here.”

Thorin chuckles. Bag End’s carpets may be soft, but the prospect of a real bed has his own muscles sing with longing. 

Thus with determination and without dislodging the blanket Thorin stands with Bilbo in his arms. The hobbit giggles against his neck, but doesn't protest being carried.

And when Thorin set him down on his large bed, Bilbo’s hands tugs on Thorin’s shoulder. “Stay with me?” 

Those golden eyes may be hazy from the cold and fatigue, but the hope and affection in them is honest, and Thorin’s heart warms in response. Without disentangling himself from his husband, he slips under the covers, too.

* * *

They wake very late the next morning -

Or rather, Thorin is woken up by Bilbo sneezing loudly. 

The dwarf surges up in alarm while Bilbo daintily dabs at his reddened nose with a silk handkerchief. “Good morning,” he mutters, voice thick from what looks like an oncoming cold, while Thorin still gathers his bearings. 

“I'm sorry if I acted inappropriately last night,” Bilbo continues while Thorin reviews the events of the last days. “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable or in anyway force you to …”

“It's fine,” Thorin interrupts with a short shake of his head. Bilbo raises an eyebrow. 

“Is it?” he asks. “We may be married, but that doesn't mean you have to indulge my every …”

It's too early for this, Thorin thinks wearily. Far too early, and he's resolved this issue quite a while ago.

“Yes, yes, I’m aware,” Thorin interrupts once more and then rolls over to reach for Bilbo. He boldly buried a hand in the hobbit’s messy curls. 

“We are married, which means this isn't just about my feelings,” Thorin says, and  the look of utter surprise on Bilbo’s face is exhilarating. “And this may have been a marriage of convenience - but I'd not have acted as I did if I hadn't wanted to. You should know me that well by now, Bilbo.”

A faint blush creeps along the hobbit’s cheeks. “I - yes, yes. I know,” his lips curl into a small smile. “I just didn't want to presume…”

“You didn't,” Thorin says, and while there is so much uncertainty ahead and their past is no less complicated, his heart fills with conviction.  

So he closes his eyes and leans forward - just enough that Bilbo will have to close the rest of the distance. He hears a hitch of breath, and for a moment only cool air caresses his lips - but then another pair tentatively covers them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to drop either of us a line over on tumblr! ([iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com) | [paranoidfridge](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)).


	6. The Plot in Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter has passed and Thorin travels to Erebor. There things unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ends not quite on a cliffhanger, but with our protagonists in a rather unfavourable situation. If you'd rather wait until this is resolved - the next (and last) chapter is due on the 20th.
> 
> Also [cute art featuring Frodo and Bilbo](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/152818771102/of-growing-things-chapter-6-the-plot-in-erebor) by the wonderful [iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com)!

Winter then passes swiftly, spent in many evenings lounging around the fire, reading. Or in the study, working through calculations and plans. Winter, Thorin learns, is a time for the hobbits to pool their knowledge and to plan.

Which fields will bear what crops, how have population numbers developed, which region will require more, which less grain, meat, or produce? And while Thorin is no stranger to complicated calculations - the foundations of the architectural feats of Erebor were all well-prepared - the sheer scope of the hobbits’ planning leaves him impressed. There are contingency plans for floods, fires, bad weather.

Though when Thorin speaks his mind, Bilbo wearily runs a hand through lengthening curls. “Honestly, we’re relying on having good weather elsewhere then. If things become truly bad, there is only so much we can do.”

Recalling their emergency trip to Ered Luin not too long ago, Thorin reaches out to tousle Bilbo’s hair himself. “I do think that is plenty.”

Golden curls tangle around his fingers; soft yet hard, and of course a strand catches on one of Thorin’s rings. Bilbo frowns at the painful tug, but this turns into a smile as Thorin hastily mutters an apology and slips the ring off. The metal band doesn’t look out of place against Bilbo’s hair (perhaps because Thorin has seen hobbits decorate their hair with pearls and jewels, too), but another notion forms in his mind.

“May I braid it?” Thorin asks.

Bilbo catches the reverent note in Thorin’s voice and turns away from his sheets and calculations. The flickering flames from the fireplace cast a soft, warm glow onto his face.

“What?” Bilbo asks, tentatively. He knows what braiding means to dwarves; must know it, and Thorin’s own heart quivers at his boldness. But beyond that - he knows, understands what he is offering and it feels right. Their affections have grown, and not only since the fall into Hobbiton’s stream brought them to share a bed.

Whatever thread has since been pulling them together has now completed its work.

“Allow me to braid your hair,” Thorin says, a smile on his lips. “It usually is part of a marriage for us dwarves, and I was remiss …”

“I know,” Bilbo interrupts him, his eyes wide with surprise and hope. “And I understood you ...” He stops himself with a shake of his head. “You would braid my hair?”

“Yes,” Thorin says and reaches out to run his hands through the curls again. Different from dwarven hair, certainly, but he can think of various braids that would suit Bilbo. “I’m afraid I don’t have the right beads for this - you probably know how we use different types of beads for various braids and occasions.”

He should make beads for Bilbo, he thinks as he waves the hair into familiar patterns. And maybe when he returns to Erebor he can have one set of the family beads to braid into golden curls.

For now he tugs one of the beads from his own hair and clasps it around the short braid. “This must do, I’m afraid.”

Bilbo reaches up, his fingers ghosting over Thorin’s hand, before touching the bead. “This will do wonderfully,” he says and turns toward Thorin with a beatific smile. He stretches his neck, and Thorin leans in and for this and many other precious days the world is warm and bright.

But eventually the snow begins to thaw and letters reach the Shire once again.

* * *

 

The first to leave are Primula, Drogo and Frodo. Bilbo and Thorin travel to Buckland to see them off - a well-armed escort of men waits to escort them all the way to Minas Tirith. It’s a safe road and the sky overhead a clear, cloudless blue, yet even Thorin can feel the anticipation in the air.

“Don’t look so glum,” Primula tells Bilbo cheerfully as she pulls him in for an embrace. “It’s just an investigation. We’ll be back before you know it.”

Thorin shifts his weight. When she returns the hobbits will make the final verdict on the riots in Ithilien. And Primula had cheerfully suggested stated that depending on her conclusions, she would support involving the orcs.

Now she lets go of her cousin and turns to Thorin. “Thank you for taking care of Frodo,” she says and musses her son’s hair. The small hobbit beams proudly at Thorin, a tiny sword (it is sharp; Thorin made sure of that) strapped to his side. “And good luck with your own investigation.”

An icy fist wraps around his heart, and Thorin barely manages to smile and incline his head.

“But you will be back when we return, won’t you?” Frodo asks of Thorin, eyes wide and pleading.

“Maybe not quite so fast,” Bilbo replies gently. “Thorin is visiting his family after all, and don’t you think he should spend some time with them, too?”

“Yes, but don’t we need to know about the stones?” Frodo asks, looking between Bilbo and Thorin. The ice around Thorin’s heart pressed closer.

“Well, he can always write about his findings,” Bilbo replies lightly, though Thorin catches Primula frowning his way. She, of course, notices his eyes and tilts her head toward him, eyes coolly assessing.

“I will return in autumn at the latest,” Thorin tells Frodo instead, “I may be a bit later than you, but I will be back.”

* * *

 

His family is looking forward to seeing him again, the letters say. Thorin looks at Bilbo sitting at his desk working through a thick ledger and thinks that he will miss this, too. Without Frodo stopping by nearly everyday Bag End has become quieter. His own bags sit packed in the room he used to sleep in - but a number of his beads and rings lie in the drawers of Bag End’s master bedroom, and they will stay there.

Any day now, the escort taking him to Erebor might arrive, and he knows that while some hobbits have come to respect him, not few whisper. Wonder if he will return.

Thorin knows that Bilbo wonders it too.

So he leaves his family rings in the bedside drawer, rebraids his bead into Bilbo’s hair, and at night holds him close.  

* * *

 

Bilbo sighs as the caravan vanishes around the corner. He can still hear the clatter of their ponies’ hooves on the cobble stone road, but their forms have vanished into the grey and faint green of yet leafless shrubbery.

A cool breeze rustles through them, and Bilbo looks toward the clouds on the horizon with a small frown. He knows better than to doubt Thorin; his feelings or his promise. But he also knows that there are things they cannot control.

And Erebor is far, far away from the Shire.

* * *

 

Thorin reaches Erebor at the start of summer after an unhurried journey. He is welcomed grandly by his entire family - his grandfather waves down from the balustrade and makes a speech, while Dis runs out to embrace him, followed by Fili and Kili.

“Uncle Thorin!” they cheerfully exclaim. “What took you so long?”

He chuckles, swinging each of the boys around - and he missed them, he missed all the familiar faces. He can see Dwalin standing in the shadow of the gate, his arms crossed before his chest, and then his little brother is there and punches him in the shoulder.

“You idiot!” he proclaims and then turns to Fili and Kili. “This big oaf got himself married. That's what took him so long.”

He shakes his head. “And left us to clean up his mess.” Then a grin comes over his face. “But you're back now - everyone can go back to fawning over crown prince Thorin.”

Before Thorin can even speak up Frerin knocks their foreheads together and Thorin’s heart revels in the affection. He'd no idea just how badly he missed everyone.

Even if he can't stay forever. But ere he can even hint as much at Thorin, another familiar form makes his way through the crowd.

“My son,” Thrain pronounces, his eyes shining with tears. And then he just steps forward and draws Thorin into a tight embrace. “I'm so, so sorry.”

Thorin returns the hug and pats his father’s back (it has grown frail during his absence).  “It's alright,” he mutters. “It's alright.”

“Let's go inside!” Dis cheerfully suggests. “Grandfather has prepared a feast!”

“Yes, let's!” Frerin agrees, and the cheer is taking up by all. As Thorin follows his family back into the mountain, he stops to butt heads with Dwalin who grins at him fiercely. “Good to have you back,” he says. “You must tell me how you convinced those hobbits to let you go.”

Thorin's heart clenches. He needs to tell everyone that their suspicions were unfounded, that the situation is not as black and white as they all believed it to be.

Overhead a Raven takes flight from the parapets, heading west.

* * *

 

That night is one of grand revelry. Laughter, song and food. And many, many times Thorin is asked about the strange and unnatural ways of hobbits.

“They eat a lot,” is all he can think of.

“More than Bombur?” Balin asks with a chuckle. From two tables over the Ur family cheers loudly at the mention of their member.

“Easily,” Thorin replies likely. “They eat seven meals a day!”

Kili’s eyes widen. “That's why you got fat, uncle!”

“Kili!” Fili admonishes, while Frerin bends over laughing.

Thorin flushes.

“While I wouldn't put it quite as bluntly as my son,” Dis puts in and leans forward. “You do look quite well-fed, brother.”

“Well, they do have rather good food,” Thorin defends himself. It's not as if he gained much girth - rather the former hollows of his cheeks filled out.

“You'd expect that, no,” Frerin contemplates. “Hobbits, after all. Tell us, brother, what do they eat? Do they really have oliphant meat in the Shire?”

Thorin laughs. “Not that I’d have seen it. But who knows - they do get quite interesting things from the traders that pass by.”

“Did you bring us something, too?” Kili inquires, undaunted by his mother’s earlier scolding. This time Fili doesn’t intervene either, his eyes widening with curiosity.

“Aye,” Thorin laughs, “I brought gifts for everybody.”

Across the table, Frerin raises an eyebrow. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” he demands to know.

Dwalin nods fiercely, his cheeks flushed from the ale. “I wonder that too.”

“Indeed,” Dis chimes in. “I do seem to remember saying goodbye to a rather darkly frowning dwarf at some point. This one seems strangely happy.”

Thorin tries to box her. Dis, of course, dodges, but at least Frerin stays in place and gives an offended “ow” when the hit connects. Kili and Fili are nearly under the table with laughter, while Dwalin doesn’t even budge or spill his ale when Thorin kicks his shin.

“But truly, Thorin,” Dis says when the madness has abated a little. “I’d almost say the Shire becomes you. How is life there?”

Thorin takes a swig of his ale. Back in Erebor he can recall the grudges and annoyances he used to have. The Shire is far away once again; it’s easy to understand his old prejudices.

“It’s not too bad,” he begins, slightly hesitant. “I mean, of course it wasn’t easy at first. Hobbits do have very different manners, and well… I guess I got used to it in the end.” Now the image of Hobbiton’s green hills under a blue summer sun are tempting, and a part of Thorin does look forward to returning to the Shire.

Dis casts a glance to her children, but Balin has them successfully distracted. She reaches out to grasp Thorin’s hand. “Are you sure?” she asks quietly. “Are they - treating you alright? I know you are supposed to go back, but if you don’t want to I am sure we can -”

Thorin interrupts her with a gentle shake of his head and takes her hands with his own. “Don’t worry, little sister,” he says with a gentle smile. “It was difficult at first, but in the end - it’s really not that bad.”

Dis doesn’t look entirely convinced. But at that moment Kili whirls around with sparkling eyes. “Uncle Thorin!” he demands, “Is it true they have talking trees in the Shire?”

* * *

 

Bilbo glances at his letters in surprise. The seal is familiar, but unexpected, and his heart jumps into his throat. Why would King Thror write? Thorin ought to have arrived safely not too long ago.

Bilbo’s own contacts confirmed this.

Unless they -

Unease coils in his stomach. Bilbo hurries back into his home and kicks the door shut behind him while ripping open the envelope with shaking fingers. The letter that he unfolds his short and terrifying.

Thorin reached the Lonely Mountain.

But he has taken terribly sick. The dwarves do not know the sickness, and summoning elusive healers and rare medicines is not in their power. Thorin’s time is running out and he is asking for his husband. 

* * *

 

 

“Mister Gamgee,” Hamfast Gamgee glances up from where is kneeling in his flower bed only to see a stark white Bilbo dressed in full travel regalia place a thick envelope atop Hamfast’s letterbox.

“Something has come up,” Bilbo says, his eyes widened and staring at something Hamfast cannot see. “I need to leave immediately. As always, I entrust Bag End in your care. Should I -”

“Mister Baggins,” Hamfast interrupts, hurrying over but as he reaches out Bilbo flinches back. “Bilbo, what on earth is happening?”

The other hobbit blinks, but his eyes still don’t focus. “You know what to do,” he repeats. “I need to ...I must go to Erebor.”

His eyes meet Hamfast’s and Hamfast is taken aback at the barely subdued panic he sees in Bilbo. “Alright,” he says, making certain to keep his voice steady. “But you can’t go alone. Or on foot. How about you go to the stalls first and get a pony?”

“Oh. Of course, yes,” Bilbo echoes, dazedly.

And while he wanders down the path, Hamfast calls for his oldest boy. “Run to the stalls. Tell them to stall Mister Baggins, get Rufus there, he can talk some sense into him - then make sure to send a message to Tookborough. Something’s come up, Bilbo’s heading to Erebor.”

It’s not likely they can stop Bilbo. But they can make certain he doesn’t go alone.

* * *

 

Meanwhile in Erebor Thorin slides back into an old life that now feels odd. His family and friends treat him as if he had never left; the mountain itself seems unchanged. And yet Thorin finds himself taken aback at times - the food tastes bland sometimes, the decor a tad too ostentatious.

“The Shire changed you,” Frerin points out to Thorin at some point.

Thorin shrugs as they make their way toward dinner hall. “I suppose it did. Do you think it's a bad thing?”

Frerin brow crinkles. “You'd not have asked that before,” he replies easily. “And eh, I'd say you haven't changed for the worse. But then it's the hobbit that made you change and you’ll have to admit it's a slight suspicious.”

Thorin swallows. The memory of his old hatred for the hobbits now feels like the shadow from a past life - and in a way probably is. “I think I understand,” Thorin replies.

Frerin laughs; the doors of the dining hall come into sights and the guards before them bow. “So, what would you say? Was it a natural change or did the hobbits bewitch you?”

Thorin's stomach twists at the implication, but any reaction he may have given is swallowed by the loud groan the gold-plated doors give as they are being pulled open. Warm light and the scent of grilled meat spill out, Frerin’s pace quickens, and Thorin feels himself smile. “Who knows,” he mutters, feeling rather at ease with everything.

Even if it was magic, he doesn't think the change was a bad thing.

And once they've taken their places at the table these things are fast forgotten. Kili and Fili regale them all with tales from their adventures - how Fili bested all the guards at training today, and that Balin commended Kili’s script. He proceeds to write something out that Thorin, and Mahal knows he tried, can't decipher, but Balin pats Kili’s back warmly.

Thrain arrived late, and with a rather solemn set to his face. Thror never shows up for dinner, but that was already usual when Thorin lived in Erebor.

After dinner, Thrain draws Thorin into a surprising hug. “I'm glad to see you well,” he says as the others have already faded from view. “I only wish I could have stayed for a longer time.”

“I'm still here for at least two fortnights,” Thorin replies, confused. He could stay longer, too.

Thrain shakes his head. “I leave for the Iron Hills at first light tomorrow.”

It's like a thunderclap, and Thorin freezes. “Oh,” he says, and feels rather ill-prepared, “what - why?”

Thrain grimaces. “An urgent diplomatic issue.”

Thorin isn't aware of anything that could require such urgent attention. Erebor is at peace, their stores are filled -

“The King may inform you still, I don't know,” Thrain continues, appearing somewhat sad. “For now, don't trouble yourself about it.” 

* * *

 

Bilbo ends up stopping at Rivendell against his will. Time is running away, yet the rangers that accompanied him from the Shire insisted. They must return to their posts, and Bilbo cannot cross the Misty Mountains on his own.

At least Lord Elrond welcomes him and completely understands the need for haste. He packs Bilbo a satchel of a variety of healing herbs and ointments.

“Do not hesitate to send for me or my distant kin in the Greenwood,” Lord Elrond says when Bilbo rides out of Rivendell, flanked by four elves on tall horses. “They may not be on best terms with Erebor, but they know much of healing.”

Bilbo thanks him, and resolves to relay his gratitude more elaborately another time.

For now, they need to cross the mountains whose daunting, snow-capped peaks tower overhead. 

* * *

 

Thorin doesn't think he ever truly enjoyed being in Erebor the way he does now. He visits the markets with his sister in the morning, spars with Dwalin and Frerin and listens with rapt attention when Fili and Kili tell of their daily exploits over dinner.

His father’s absence is perhaps his only regret. He would have liked to speak to Thrain, ask where his mother’s and grandmother’s courting beads disappeared to.

When he asks Dis she says a number ended up in her possession. “Why are you asking,” she wonders then. “Is there anybody you aim to woo?”

Thorin sighs. His siblings still refuse to see his marriage as more than a sham - and think Thorin bewitched for speaking of true feelings.

“I do have a husband,” he replies bravely.

Dis’ lips curl. “You would give mother’s marriage beads to a hobbit?”

“I would.”

“Do hobbits even care for beads? I heard they keep their hair short.”

“And yet long enough to braid,” Thorin replies smoothly and looks down on his cup. The hour is late, and the mood in Dis’ reception room a little melancholic.

“I understand your skepticism,” Thorin stalls the protest. “And truly, you could be right and I could be under some enchantment.”

Dis eyes him warily.

“But for all I know this may also be untrue. I have been unhappy and resentful about the situation for a long time. Yet nothing I saw confirmed what we say about the hobbits - rather, I learned that the truth is much more complex, and I thought about trying to make the best of my situation for once.” Thorin can't stop the small smile from forming. He doubts his words will persuade Dis, yet she may sympathize with his position.

“You know,” she says eventually. “I always thought I would be the one to end up in a political marriage.”

Thorin chuckles. “I think that was off the table the moment you turned twenty.”

“Setting fire to that book was a good decision,” Dis declares with vigor.

Thorin laughs at the memory of the horrified expressions their tutors had worn. Their father had been rather concerned, their mother amused, and their grandfather even more so.

Those had been happier times.

“It was,” Thorin agrees quietly and Dis’ expression softens.

“I wish today’s problems could be solved by setting a book on fire,” Dis says and turns her gaze to the fireplace. “I won't claim to understand your feelings. I know nothing of magic and I have never met a hobbit either. Your Bilbo could be the sweet thing you say or evil incarnate - I simply don't know. I know I would see the Shire’s chokehold on Erebor loosened, but I do not agree with grandfather’s rhetoric either. Why did growing up make everything so horridly complicated?”

Thorin sighs in commiseration. “Maybe we should ask your sons how to solve the problem.”

Dis smiles tiredly but with humor. “I did. Kili suggested holding an archery contest. Fili said to negotiate.”

“He's still into archery then?” Thorin asks, remembering the scandal it had caused when little Kili had decided to prefer the bow to the axe.

Dis nods. “Grandfather ignores it. Dwalin says he’s got real talent for it, and it makes him happy. Also it's not as if Erebor had an overabundance of skilled archers, as our brother put it.”

Which is utterly true, and also a product of how little regard archers get within Erebor, Thorin thinks. He raises his cup and downs the rest of his wine, Dis following suit.

More could be said on the issues of Erebor - but both are tired now, and look to the blissful amnesia of sleep. 

* * *

 

Bilbo breathes a sigh of relief as the land before them flattens out. A cold wind from the Misty Mountains follows their little group, but they’ve left those snow-capped, terrifying peaks behind for now.

If not for the urgency burning in his veins, Bilbo would have turned back at the first mountain pass. His knees had grown weak, his mind dizzy - but the words, long burned into his memory - keep spurring him forward.

Even the elves have expressed admiration for his determination.

He misses Thorin, missed his frowns and grumpiness and brooding. He also missed the dwarf that is so concerned for his kin that is upright and honest and so good it makes Bilbo’s heart ache.

He can't bear to think anything ill befell him. So Bilbo pushes on. 

* * *

 

As the weeks stretch Thorin begins to think about leaving. The mountain passes are open well into autumn, but if he left earlier he’d avoid the risk of getting stuck. He doesn't speak of this aloud. Thror seems to think he is there to stay, Thrain has yet to return, and Frerin and Dis keep busy.

Thinking about leaving also brings forth the issue Thorin has yet to resolve - namely the ruby shipments. Everybody Thorin consulted on the matter so far has expressed bewilderment - and the suspicion that either the hobbits must be lying or the transport had been messed with.

At this point Thorin doubts the hobbits are lying, so he asks Balin to point him toward the treasurer. And Gloin - a very old friend - is more than happy to receive Thorin.

The first hour of their reunion is spent looking at portraits of Gloin’s son. Which is rather entertaining, though at some point Thorin wonders if any member of the royal family had ever had so many portraits commissioned of their offspring.

Gloin, however, is also very given to the ideal of love. “Oh yes,” he says when Thorin implies he may have grown to like Bilbo. “You can't help love. Given, a hobbit may be a bit strange, but as my lass always says, there’s no way of deceiving the heart. You'll only make yourself unhappy if you deny it. So I'm happy for you, Thorin, because it's a magical experience if you open your heart to it.”

“Err, yes,” Thorin agrees with significantly less enthusiasm. Luckily Gloin is not offended at all, and also doesn't mind when after two hours they leave philosophical discussions of love behind.

“I had a chance to assess the last shipment from Erebor to the Shire,” Thorin says. “And discovered that among a small number of rubies a good quantity of red quartz was delivered.”

“Oh yes,” Gloin agrees cheerfully. “Just as ordered. Glad to know it arrived in one piece - it's quite astonishing, the logistics, of transporting these quantities of precious stones from one end of the world to another. Getting them to Ithilien is always a hassle, what with not having guaranteed safe passage.”

Thorin blinks. As ordered? Ithilien? “Do you have a copy of that order?”

Gloin leans back in his chair. “In my office, of course. We always have duplicates and triplicates of the big orders - could get messy if those get lost and a dispute occurs.”

Thorin swallows, nods. Gloin speaks the truth, and he has an ill idea of what may be occurring.

Indeed, when a runner brings him copies the next day Thorin finds the shipment listing vast quantities of red quartz. Which Thorin knows directly violates the contract with the Shire.

But the instructions, too, bear the royal seal. And all clues imply that Thror personally dictated the shipment. 

* * *

 

Bilbo has little patience for stopping on their journey. Not too few traders they come across invite the group to eat with them - and some invite Bilbo to come to their villages for they wish to trade with the Shire.

Telling them to write the Thain is no adequate response to their concerns. But Bilbo is in a hurry and refuses even the hospitality of both the Greenwood and Dale.

When the Lonely Mountain towers before him, Bilbo’s chest tightens. He has had no more word from Erebor; so he prays Thorin is alright. 

* * *

 

Time passes. Until one day Thorin’s breakfast with his siblings is interrupted by Dwalin.

“Thorin,” he barks out, “your hobbit is here.”

“What?” Thorin nearly drops his cup, mind spinning. Bilbo here? Why? How? This must be a mistake! He'd never travel this far, not unless -

“Why?” Dis asks, frowning. She exchanges a look with Frerin. “Did he say?”

“Something about hearing that Thorin was very sick,” Dwalin replies, and Thorin realizes that his friend looks pale, upset. “He had a missive.”

“From Erebor?” Frerin inquires.

Thorin grows dizzy. How would this happen? What sort of misunderstanding occurred?

Dwalin nods.

Dis curses. Thorin looks to her in question. “What is going on?”

Frerin answers darkly. “Somebody wanted your husband in Erebor.” And Thorin abruptly realizes that Bilbo was not summoned from a misunderstanding but lured into a trap.

He stands, urgency surging in his veins. Bilbo needs to leave the mountain at once - he can't trust the dwarves to be friendly, they can't even expect Thror to show him any favor, especially not Thror.

“Where is he?” Thorin demands of Dwalin as he marches to the door.

“Entrance Hall,” Dwalin replies and Thorin takes off running.

“Bilbo?” Thorin hurries down the corridor toward the hobbit surrounded by his grandfather's courtiers. He's wearing his black coat and red silk cape, his hair shines golden and he holds his head high, but all Thorin can see is that his husband is but a head shorter than all the dwarves surrounding him and painfully, frighteningly unarmed.

Bilbo's eyes lighten up as he catches sight of Thorin. Unmistakable relief crosses his face - and he takes a step toward Thorin, smiling gently -

“Bilbo, you need to -”

“Seize him!”

The command comes from Thror himself, standing on a balcony high above the entrance hall. In the moment it took Thorin to look to his grandfather, four guards in armor have grabbed Bilbo harshly and forced him to the ground.

One has a hand in those golden curls, roughly forcing Bilbo’s head down, but Thorin can see the confusion. His own heart clenched in pain, but Dwalin’s hand on his shoulder stops him from stepping forward. He whirls around unsteadily.

“My King!” He shouts, not bothering to hide how his voice cracks with despair. “Grandfather!”

“Take him to the dungeon,” Thror orders coldly and utterly ignores his grandson’s pleas.

“What-” Bilbo begins, and Thorin can hear the current of anxiety underneath the calm, but Bilbo is cut off by a knock to his head.

“Silence,” the guard orders, while another rushed forward with heavy iron manacles. The shrill rattle of metal twists Thorin’s stomach. He cannot watch this, cannot bear -

“I demand -” Bilbo starts anew only to be cuffed on the head.

“Silence.” And Thorin heard Bilbo gasp as his arms are forced together behind his back and fear surges through him. Hobbits are not as strong as dwarves; and Bilbo is a soft creature behind the strong personality he projects.

“No, stop,” Thorin says, shaking himself out of a stupor, but Dwalin catches his shoulder. “Don't,” he says, “you can't help.”

Not with his powers stripped and everybody thinking him brainwashed.

So Thorin must watch as his hobbit is dragged away in chains, and his heart breaks when just before disappearing around the corner Bilbo looks up to meet his eyes. And he sees fear and confusion and yet still trust in Thorin written there -

And it breaks his heart to know that he partly is at fault. 

* * *

 

Bewildered, Bilbo doesn’t even struggle as the guards drag him further and further down into Erebor. His head spins madly - his heart races from relief at seeing Thorin hale and healthy, but panic surges underneath. Cold iron wraps around his wrists, unforgiving and demeaning; the guards do not even look at him, the grips hard and cold.

“What is going on?” he demands to know, his voice coming out too breathy and high, swallowed by the vast architecture as he is dragged down another staircase. It’s darker here, colder, too, but the two dwarves remain utterly silent.

“Why are you doing this?” he tries again.

“What are the charges?”

Cold sweat beads his forehead and makes his clothes stick. The light fades, his breath quickens.

“What is going on?”

He doesn’t care that there is an edge of panic to his voice now. They’re alone, and Erebor’s splendors have given way to solemn grey walls. Lamps are few in between, but Bilbo’s eyes catch the outline of solid, iron doors and fear surges.

“You can’t lock me in here!” he screams. “There must have been a mistake! Take me back! The King will now! Take me to the King!”

The two dwarves do not react.

The last light fades, and Bilbo is thrown into utter blackness. His heart skips a beat, fear rising to his head and he struggles. Chains clatter against each other, the noise eerily amplified in what small chamber they must be in - Bilbo can only feel cold stone against the soles of his feet, and cool, silent air around him. The two tighten their grips, and that will leave bruises, but Bilbo doesn’t care.

“Then get Thorin! Isn’t he your prince? I demand to speak with him, I -”

He’s interrupted by a silent click. The chains from his hands fall away, and Bilbo marvels at his freedom, a part of his mind already hoping that this will take a turn for good now. That the mistake was realized, that they will bring him to Thorin -

Instead he’s let go and pushed forward into utter, impenetrable darkness. His feet stumble on bare, polished stone, and before he has caught himself a heavy door slams shut behind him. And the key is turned.

“Hey!” Bilbo shouts. “Hey!”

The footsteps fade into the distance.

“Wait,” he screams into the blackness, “Wait, this isn’t right! Come back! Come back and let me out! Come back!”

Silence answers.

* * *

 

“You must wait, Thorin,” Dis cautions him. “At least until after dinner. Once grandfather has retired for the night, I doubt anybody will stop you.”

Thorin is a hair’s breadth away from simply storming down into the dungeons and ordering Bilbo’s release. He’s still a prince of Erebor, the guards should obey -

“They won’t release him,” Dis says sharply, interrupting Thorin’s thoughts. “Grandfather made sure of that, and I doubt Frerin or father will be able to talk him out of this. Despite the consequences.”

She bites her lips at that, looking away. Thorin glances to Balin, dumbfounded. “Consequences?”

Balin sighs. “From what I can guess - and your grandfather kept most of this a very close secret - this has been planned for quite a while now.”

Thorin feels the blood drain from his head and he sinks down onto a nearby chair. Everyone, he realizes only now, is pale. Fear lies almost palpably in the air.

“I believe Thror’s plan is to use a hostage to either force the hobbits to pay homage to Erebor at least.” Balin explains with a sigh, looking to the old tapestries decorating the walls of Thorin’s rooms. All those scenes depicting Erebor’s unrivalled glory - he can still remember the burning desire to restore Erebor’s position himself.

Now, however, cold foreboding is all that fills his veins. “Or?”

“Or to straight-out force the hobbits to accept Erebor’s rule.” Balin sighs.

“What will the hobbits do?” Dis asks, shifting her weight uneasily from one foot to another, while Thorin buries his hands in his own hair.

“I don’t quite know,” Balin says. “And in all honesty, I am more worried about the reaction this may garner from Dale and the Greenwood.”

“Mahal,” Dis groans, and sits down heavily atop a gold-plated chest. “How long do we have?”

Balin frowns. “I don’t know. But I believe by sunrise the word will have spread.”

* * *

 

Frerin dares to raise the issue with their grandfather in open court later that day. Thorin and Dis are hiding on the high balconies reserved for the nobles and around them the air is abuzz with hushed whispers.

Tension has settled over Erebor. Though Thror, surrounded by his richly dressed councilors, does not appear to feel it.

“My King,” Frerin begins, demurely bowing before Thror and earning himself a fond smile, “may your reign be blessed and your beard grow ever longer.”

“And so may yours,” Thror replies generously. “I shall hear your concern.”

Frerin keeps his face down. But Thorin can tell he is pale and nervous. Next to him, Dis bites her lip. “This won’t end well,” she says.

“You know that I only desire the best for Erebor and long to see her gain power and riches,” Frerin begins, “I long to see her respected and at peace and wish the same for her inhabitants.”

He takes a deep breath. “Thus I cannot help but worry what will happen to Erebor. I understand the hobbit was taken prisoner for a good reason, but I fear what may be brought upon this kingdom in retaliation.”

Thorin swallows numbly. It should be him down there, speaking these words.

“Oh Frerin,” Dis mumbles.

Thror’s features twist. Anger wars with something gentler, but in the end an ugly mask of greed wins out. The King under the Mountain rises from his throne, proud and tall. “Your concern commends you,” Thror grandly states. “But rest assured all is well.”

“My King,” Frerin protests, keeping his head respectfully bowed. “I do believe you. I wish to understand so we may have words to soothe the fears of those that now fear they will lose their trade.”

This time Thror is visibly annoyed. Then he exhales loudly. “Very well,” he declares, “for the weak-willed and feeble-minded. Do not worry - this is well-planned. We will force the hobbits to bow to Erebor, and then we will dictate the terms of trade.”

“My King,” somebody else injects. Thorin and Dis both lean forward, but the person remains well-hidden in the crowd of onlookers. “This is all well, and I suppose that prisoner may help, but what of the short-term? Word is that Dale is preparing to close their gates, and the first of our traders there have been ejected.”

Thror whitens with rage. “Those ungrateful traitors!” he roars. “Freeing the east of the hobbits’ yoke will greatly benefit them! They should support us! Don't they know the south has begun to stir, too? The world will rise against the hobbits, and where will that leave them if they don't support us?”

“But they don’t!” somebody yells, and this time Thorin can see one of Erebor’s generals stride forward. She strides forward and stiffly kneels before the throne, next to Frerin. “My King, if we need to close the gates or support our kin outside of the mountain, I await your command.”

“Your eagerness is admirable, Lady Maris,” Thror says through clenched teeth. “And the order will come at its time. We keep the gates open until a hostile army appears - as always. We are fighting for our freedom - our only enemy is the hobbits and their allies.”

Wrong, Thorin thinks, wrong, wrong, wrong. Just when did his grandfather lose his grip so much? When did the warm and gentle Thror become so power-hungry and blind? Erebor will suffer heavy losses, and Thorin doubts this is a battle they can win. Certainly, Thror’s hostage is an important person.

But after having witnessed the politics of the Shire, Thorin doubts that this will suffice.

“Understood, my King,” Maris agrees, salutes, and smartly steps back into the crowd. The mumbling grows louder, and Thror turns to them with a frown. “And before anybody else now becomes afraid of a hostile army - we’re not expecting that. I’m waiting for Thrain to return with the support of my nephew Dain and his best warriors.”

Thorin’s blood runs cold. So this was the purpose of the strange diplomatic journey to the Iron Hills Thror had sent Thrain on. Asking for military support - the ploy to capture Bilbo, Thorin once again realizes, must have been long in the making.

* * *

 

The moment the second bell has rung, Thorin hurries out of his chambers. Nearly all of Erebor has retired to sleep, and even the palace guards merely raise a tired eyebrow at him passing.

Thorin has to stop himself from not breaking into a run. Sweat covers his back, his thoughts spin. It’s been hours, and his mind has tortured him with what might have happened to Bilbo, tortured him with the hobbit hating him now, for this treatment. He still can’t banish the image of Bilbo being dragged away from him; the same fear still burns hot in his blood.

He tightens his grip on the bundle of necessities (Dis’ rational thinking be blessed) as he turns down another staircase. Away from the palace, away from even the well-lit corridors into the areas of Erebor that only need minimal lighting.

His skin bristles as the dungeon overseer bows to him. He doesn’t like the air down here, the dark and quiet solitude. It’s supposed to make prisoners contemplate their faults - but Thorin wonders what it might do to hobbits.

“I’m here for the hobbit,” he announces coolly.

“Your highness, this -” the overseer begins, and from his posture Thorin can tell he is about to protest.

“I will see him,” he demands sharply.

The overseer inclines his head and reaches for a set of keys. “Cell number three. On the right. Should anything come up-”

“I will make sure to inform you,” Thorin finishes, fingers closing around the keys. “I expect you ascertain I will not be disturbed.”

He doesn’t wait for the dwarf to agree. Thorin stomps past him and into the even darker corridor which is lined by heavy iron doors. Even he has to slow his gait for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust, but then he spies the stark rune number on one of the cells and forgets everything.

His fingers shake when he works the key into the door, his heart is in his throat and he can’t breathe as his feet carry him over the threshold.

And he freezes.

“Hello? Who’s there?” Bilbo asks, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. He sits with his legs pulled against his body against the far wall, curled up to preserve warmth, his travel cloak wrapped around him. The bed to the side is untouched, as are the plate and the water jug standing on a table next to it. Golden eyes lined with bruise-like shadows blink into the general direction of the door.

Thorin abruptly realizes their folly, and it’s like a punch to his gut.

“Bilbo,” he calls out, stepping forward. “Bilbo, can you see me?”

The hobbit’s curly head perks up. “Thorin?” Bilbo asks, hovering between hope and suspicion, while his eyes wander through the dark without finding Thorin.

“Yes, I’m here,” Thorin replies, and then stops his outstretched arm from touching Bilbo’s shoulder at the last second. The hobbit still is looking at the wrong place.

“Can you still not see me?” he asks, his hand trembling.

Bilbo purses his lips. “No, I can’t. I might also be talking to the voices in my head.”

Thorin cringes. He should have remembered, or at least guessed at it. Dwarves can see excellently in the dark of the mountain, and if to him the dungeons are dark, to Bilbo they must be sheer black.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin says, “I’m here. May I touch you?”

Bilbo sucks in a sharp breath and agrees. Thorin reaches out to grasp one shoulder under his hand, his mind already racing. They’ll need light down here; Bilbo can’t be left in utter darkness. When he even thinks about the hours past - hours that Bilbo must have spent crouched in the same spot, blind and getting colder with each passing moment - his heart clenches.

“I’m here,” Thorin repeats and slowly, carefully draws Bilbo into an embrace.

The hobbit allows himself to be pulled against Thorin’s chest, though his limbs have cramped and stiffened, and he makes a pained noise as his head falls against Thorin’s shoulder. He can feel the tension in Bilbo’s body, and tightens his hold.

This shouldn’t be happening. Bilbo shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be treated like this. But even as his head races, he knows he cannot override his grandfather’s order.

“Thorin,” Bilbo asks and another tremor runs through his body. “Just what, what is going on?” Fingers tighten their grip on Thorin’s clothes. “First that letter saying you are sick - you are not, are you?”

“I'm quite healthy.”

“And then I arrive and get thrown into the dungeon,” Bilbo continues unhappily, “Did you know this would happen, Thorin? Do you know why this is happening?”

Thorin sighs. He doesn't understand everything yet, but what he knows does not give him confidence. “I'm afraid my grandfather lured you here on purpose.”

Bilbo stiffens, turns his head to Thorin - and ends up looking past him in the sheer darkness. “The King?”

“He's … He never liked that Erebor was not the richest or most powerful kingdom in Middle Earth. I'm afraid this opinion is rather shared by a number in the mountain, and while I believe the grandfather I knew would not have stopped this low…” Thorin shakes his head. “I wonder if age is beginning to affect his mind, or if somebody has been whispering in his ear…”

Bilbo bites his lower lip. “This … Then this is no mistake?” A hint of fear swings in his voice and Thorin abruptly realizes that the dark must be terrifying.

“I'm afraid not,” he replies, “but I'll see what I can do about getting you into more comfortable quarters.” Or at least some candles.

He makes to move, but Bilbo tightens his grip. “Please don't go,” he says, quietly, and Thorin’s heart breaks.

“I won't leave,” Thorin promises, “let's just move to the bed, shall we?”

He simply lifts Bilbo in his arms as he stands; the hobbit makes a squeak, but then holds on as Thorin crosses the short distance to the tiny cot. It's not exactly soft, but luxurious compared to the hard stone floor.

“Alright,” Thorin says as he sits down. “Do you think you can get some sleep?”

“Is it night?” Bilbo asks while he carefully reaches out for the thin blanket.

“A good while past midnight already,” Thorin replies.

Bilbo frowns. “I couldn't tell,” he says. “This darkness … I cannot see anything. Not even my own hands.”

“I will see to getting you some light,” Thorin assuages, helping Bilbo stretch out against the thin mattress. He can feel Bilbo’s muscles resisting the stretch; tense and hard from spending hours in the same position.

Even now Bilbo refuses to relinquish his hold on Thorin. Once the hobbit has lain down, Thorin takes the hand between his own, and begins to him an old lullaby.

There are things they should discuss. Plans to be made.

But for now Thorin will let Bilbo rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feel free to drop by on tumblr! ([iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com) | [paranoidfridge](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com) )


	7. To New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin doesn't know how to help, Bilbo finds himself at Thror's whim, and Frerin and Dis do what they can to stop a war. But before long Erebor is under siege, and Thror orders Bilbo's execution - and then things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter at last! The fantastic iraya has once again provided [stunning artwork](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/153439565904/of-growing-things-final-chapter-to-new-beginnings) to go with the chapter, and at this point a big thank you from her and me to everyone who read, commented, and enjoyed this mad little plot as we did. 
> 
> For this chapter - watch out for violence and unhappiness (and length! This is more than 10k), but things change about halfway through, and from there on we head toward the happy ending.

“Dwalin,” Thorin greets as he emerged from his quarters early the next morning. He barely slept, worried about Bilbo, wondering if he shouldn't have just carried him out of that dark cell. Hopefully the candles and books will help him, for Thorin doubts he will be allowed a second visit during daytime.

“What brings you here?” Thorin asks when Dwalin inclines his head.

His old friend frowns, looking left and right. The walls have ears, but then Dwalin apparently decides that those ears may hear what he has to say.

“An envoy from Dale arrived and demands to speak with the King,” Dwalin reports.

Thorin sighs. At least, he thinks, Dale hasn’t immediately sent out an armed force.

“They're threatening to lock their gates to all traders from Erebor should the hobbit not have been released by noon,” Dwalin continues, and Thorin’s shoulders slump. “Has my grandfather met with him?”

Dwalin presses his lips together. “They're meeting in half an hour.”

Thorin closes his eyes for a moment. This is unlikely to go well, but he will need to be there. “Anything else?”

“According to our intelligence,” Dwalin says, “The Greenwood has begun to gather their forces at the eastern border of their realm.”

From where they can reach Erebor in a day on horse. It’s an unmistakable threat.

* * *

 

When Thorin steps onto the Royal families’ shaded balcony in the throne hall, his brother and sister are already there. Dis’ expression is uneasy and Frerin plainly looks concerned.

Below, the envoy from Dale has just finished expressing their ultimatum - politely and respectfully, but the man’s posture makes it clear he will have an answer.

Thror, to Thorin’s surprise, does not look furious. An ill foreboding settles in his stomach.

“Your ultimatum is understandable, but misguided,” Thror replies smoothly. “Tell Dale’s King that they needn't worry - this plan had long been in the making and Erebor will break the hobbits’ power over the east and all of Arda before long.”

The man does not answer, but Thror does not wait for his reaction either. “Should Dale support us in this, I promise the city shall be rewarded greatly. We all will regain our freedom and rightful power!”

Once upon a time Thorin would have believed these words.

“I am glad to hear this was carefully conceived,” the envoy replies in a neutral voice and Thorin wonders if he does not mock Thror. And he also, with a shudder wonders, just how far this plan extended - were the riots in Ithilien helped along by Erebor after all?

“I shall carry your offer to our King, but would ask for you to answer one question which I will know Dale concerns,” the envoy replies evenly. “How will a free east come by its food?”

Thror waves his hand. “We have farmable land here, have we not? And Erebor has gold enough, and other riches. We will trade south as we did centuries ago.”

Except that the south is allied with the hobbits. Dale does not have Erebor’s riches, either. The land around them is not suited for farming - winter lasts for six months alone; the soil could never produce enough to support both Dale and Erebor.

“I understand,” the envoy replies tonelessly. “I shall bear your words to my King, and you will have Dale’s answer within the day.”

Thorin’s heart skips a beat. This is it, he thinks in disbelief, this is how it all goes into ruin right before his eyes, and for all his knowledge and strength he's powerless to stop it.

As he recites the usual formalities, Frerin turns to his siblings and hisses. “We're screwed.”

Thorin swallows, while Dis grimaces. She looks at Thorin. “How do you think the hobbits will react?”

“I …” he doesn't really know, he finds. The Thain, he believes, would not order anything rash or vengeful. However, he also recalls that many in the Shire have been discontent with Erebor for a long time. “They won't be happy.”

“Would they send soldiers?” Dis asks.

Thorin is about to blurt out that the Shire doesn't have an army. Then he recalls that they don't need one. “Probably not,” he says instead.

“They needn't, since Dale and the Greenwood will intervene on their behalf,” Frerin adds grimly.

Dis sighs and shakes her head. “How can grandfather believe we could win this? This is madness - Dale won't choose gold and gems over their reliable food supply.”

“Didn't grandfather also send for support from Dain?” Thorin puts in.

“Would Dain support this madness?” Frerin wonders.

“I wonder,” Dis says. “I suppose we shall find out soon.”

* * *

 

Loud footsteps outside draw Bilbo’s attention away from the book he has been straining to read in the dim candle light. The footsteps thus quickly, heavily, quite unlike the guards that leisurely strolled by to push a plate with dry bread and a jug of water through the a hatch in the door.

A key turns in the lock, and Bilbo puts the book aside, straightening where he sits on the hard cot of his cell. Maybe it's Thorin, a hopeful voice in his heart suggests, but he doubts it.

Indeed, it's not Thorin.

It's Thror himself, flanked by no less than four heavily armored guards and a number of courtiers who marches into the cell, a dark frown on his face. He stops a mere three steps from Bilbo, towering above him, and looking with a frown at the book and the candles.

“Hobbit,” he demands, “Where did you get these things?” Behind him the nobles whisper among themselves.

He probably suspects Thorin, Bilbo thinks, and finds his own lips curling. “How about I answer this once you inform me on what grounds I have been imprisoned. Or how the letter lying about my husband’s condition came to bear your personal seal.”

His heart hitches, but Bilbo forces himself to remain calm as Thror’s face turns red, then purple, and the King seems a hair’s breadth from lunging at him. He recalls Thorin’s words about the change in his grandfather, and reminds himself to tread cautiously.

“Haven't your kind been lying to us all along?! Haven't you cheated and tricked the entire world to do your work?!” Thror roars, unfettered. “And then you dare to tell us that our gems are worthless, that you want new terms, when your plan was to enslave us all along!”

A madman’s rant, Bilbo thinks. But the courtiers and the guards believe it and abruptly a surge of fear runs through Bilbo’s chest.

“Take away the candles! And the other things!” Thror orders. Bilbo makes a noise in protest, but two guards step forward, crowding him in, and Bilbo has to watch in growing nervousness as another guard collects his things from the small night table. The candle flickers out.

And the call immediately goes utterly dark. Bilbo’s heart jumps in fear, but he grinds his teeth. The dwarves can still see, and he can hear them.

“Now, I need you to write a letter to the Thain for me. Your grandfather, as I am given to understand, will likely be rather concerned for you.” Thror’s voice sounds much smugger in the impenetrable darkness. Behind him the courtiers whisper ever more loudly, seeming to echo Thror’s words.

“Terribly sorry,” Bilbo quips back despite his racing heart. “You took away the candles and I can't write blind.”

Thror takes a deep breath. “Very well. In that case we’ll have to add something else to convince the Thain. How about an ear?”

Bilbo's blood runs cold. “You -” he begins, and he never heard the guards move, but abruptly his arms and shoulders are gripped and he’s wrenched from the bed and forced to his knees. He can't move, can't breathe -

Heavy footsteps approach. A blade is drawn; a hand roughly grips his head -

“My King,” somebody speaks up, “Is this wise?”

Thror stops. Bilbo's entire body trembles, he doesn't dare move. He can't see where the blade is, how close it might be. His shoulders ache from the uncomfortable hold; his wrists are bruising already.

“What do you mean, Balin?” Thror demands and Bilbo remembers that name from Thorin’s tales of Erebor.

“My King, I wonder if harming our hostage may not lose us support from Dale and other potential backers.”

Thror doesn't react.

“We also would be able to present a better threat,” somebody else suggests. “Keep the hostage unharmed, and when they fail to comply, successively increase pressure. An ear, a finger, a hand …”

Bilbo shudders. His voice is caught in his throat, and he's both, angry and terrified, and wants nothing more than to be far, far away from here.

“Very well,” Thror agrees, and before Bilbo can breathe out in relief, hard hands tighten painfully around the braid in his hair and a sharp blade cuts it off, bead and all.

Bilbo gasps.

“You won't keep that one,” Thror spits in disgust. “That marriage was a sham; now my grandson is free to a partner that is worthy of him.”

It's like a punch in the gut, despite Bilbo knowing better. Thorin was here last night, told him differently, and warned him that his grandfather was perhaps going mad.

“Take his ring,” Thror orders, and somebody wrenches his family ring from Bilbo’s finger. A pained noise escapes his throat, but then it's loose, and the guards let him go.

He drops to the floor, blind and gasping for air, while footsteps turn to the door and Thror gives the order to leave. Nobody seems to look to him, and Bilbo keeps his face down, unsure he could control his expression. His heart races, his pinkie throbs in pain, and the missing bead feels like a part of his head had been cut off.

What a terrible, terrible mess, he thinks, one hand reaching up to feel the hacked off strands of his braid.

* * *

 

“Dale has closed its gates,” Dis reports at lunch. Thror is absent, and neither Frerin nor Thorin are surprised. “All dwarves there must either stand with Dale or return to Erebor ere nightfall.”

“So they're siding with the Shire,” Frerin dryly summarizes.

“Does the Shire even know they're at war yet?” Dis asks, glancing to Thorin who merely shrugs.

Frerin grimaces. “Apparently grandfather visited the dungeon this morning. If the Shire doesn't know yet, they'll know in a few days I suppose. Or however long it'll take the raven.”

Not very long, Thorin thinks and swallows down the dread.

“Do you think you could write and plead for time on our behalf?” Dis asks, casting a calculating look toward Thorin. “Cite inner troubles or just tell them that grandfather had gone mad.”

Frerin straightens abruptly. “You would tell an outsider?”

Dis looks to him coolly. “It's difficult to miss nowadays.”

“Mad?” Thorin echoes faintly. “But he…” The King may be acting irrational and following a plot doomed to certain failure. But to call him mad -

Dis huffs as she turns to Thorin. “Haven't you noticed? All he cares about lately are gold and power - if the dwarves of Erebor starve for his glory, it's what he will do.”

Thorin's mouth runs dry. “I …” Hadn't thought it was quite that bad, he finishes.

“Even so,” Frerin interrupts, “what would the Shire do with that information? It doesn't change that grandfather is King, or that the hobbit is his hostage.”

Dis pushes her plate aside energetically. “They might not send an army upon us immediately.”

“Are you certain of that?” Frerin asks, leaning back in his seat. “We know nothing of their intentions or plans for the east.”

“Whatever their plan, I think it doesn't include starving us,” Dis declares. “I can live with that.”

“How about you, Thorin,” Frerin inquires. “What do you think will happen should the hobbits find out about grandfather’s affliction?” He tilts his head. “And do you know anything about their plans for the east in general?”

Thorin can only sigh, recalling the meetings he witnessed and the conversations he overheard. “I … Don't think they have any interest in conquering Erebor or similar things.” Indeed, he thinks, while the hobbits were certainly interested in extending trade relations, they also seemed troubled at arranging everything. He still can see Bilbo bowed over piles of parchment, working out the calculations for Ered Luin.

“Doesn't change that they may want to get revenge on that hobbit’s behalf,” Frerin says, jerking his head toward the door. Dread abruptly fills Thorin’s heart - has Bilbo been harmed?

“Thorin?” Dis draws him from his nightmares. “Will they want revenge?”

Thorin swallows. “I don't know,” he says. The Thain did not strike him to approve of violence. But Lobelia had been all too willing to call on the orcs for support. “It's possible, though.”

Dis frowns. “For what it's worth, if you could write, or maybe convince Bilbo to write on our behalf, it would win us some time to sort things out.”

Thorin blinks. “And have Bilbo remain in the dungeon in the meantime?”

Dis flinches. “We'd …” She looks to Frerin, who shrugs. “Not for long,” she assuages, but it doesn't truly soothe the unease coiling in Thorin’s chest.

There is something his siblings aren't telling him. Thorin wouldn't have minded, but it seems they want his help with whatever they are plotting.

“How about you help me break Bilbo out and abscond with him? We'd be out of your hair, and the hobbits had little reason to strike Erebor,” Thorin suggests. He folds his arms over his chest, waiting.

“Dale wouldn't ever open its gates to us again,” Dis counters. “Nor would any of the cities and countries allied with the hobbits dare to trade with us ever again. You would abandon Erebor to this?”

“Erebor would crumble,” Frerin summarizes, eying Thorin darkly.

Thorin purses his lips defensively. “Won't grandfather's plan end the same way?”

His siblings exchange another look.

“What will you do?” Thorin asks, his patience beginning to wane. “If you expect me to ask for time on your behalf, I do need a very good reason.”

“As we told you,” Frerin replies stiffly. “We're looking to sort matters out.”

Thorin wants to shout that that's not enough. “You expect me to let my husband suffer in the meantime?”

“He's -” Ferin begins, but Dis interrupts him with a harsh gesture.

“You do love him, don't you?” she asks, intrigued.

Thorin presses his lips together. “For what it's worth, yes. And I will break him out, with your help or without.”

“If you do that, Erebor’s dead,” Frerin replies sharply.

Thorin cringes. He doesn't want that. Doesn't want to have to make that choice.

“It needn't come to that,” Dis says diplomatically. “I will admit the development surprises me, but maybe something can be done about the hobbit’s accommodation.”

“I doubt grandfather will allow that,” Thorin snorts.

Dis purses her lips and shifts her weight uneasily. She casts another glance to Frerin who eventually sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

“Thorin,” Dis says softly. “Do you realize what we may have to do?”

He frowns. To undo this plot they must convince the King to change his mind. Something that to Thorin appears impossible, unless of course his siblings know more.

“You'll persuade grandfather?” he asks.

Dis closes her eyes, and Frerin shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “If it only was that easy,” he says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “No, I fear grandfather will not listen to any of us.”

Thorin blinks. “Then what…” A notion dawns on him in the back of his mind, dark and terrifying and he can't believe they'd even contemplate that.

“You do recall he sent father to the Iron Hills,” Dis says. “Support against Dale and the Greenwood.”

But who is to say, Thorin realizes abruptly, that the Iron Hills will support Thror? True, he wields the Arkenstone but if his own kin dares to stand against him -

Preposterous.

“Will –“ Thorin begins and then cuts himself off. They have no way of knowing for now. Dain is a reasonable character and the Iron Hills had been looking to trade with the Shire recently.

Revolting against the King is treason punishable by death. It’s just not done. Men may have their uprisings and revolutions, but dwarves are steadfast in their loyalty.

Except...

Thorin looks at his siblings with wide eyes. He'd not guessed, not thought they'd dare to -

But apparently this is where they all have to take a stand.

“Alright,” Thorin agrees with his heart in his throat and his mind spinning with disbelief. “I shall speak to Bilbo. But he cannot stay in that cell.”

* * *

 

Thorin has to wait until after nightfall once again to sneak into the dungeon. His grandfather orders the family to gather for a grand dinner - most of his advisors and nobles are present as well.

Some, Thorin observes as he pokes as his beautifully served piece of venison, look overjoyed with the turn of events. His grandfather’s grand speech of Erebor near to reclaiming its glory and proper status in the world draws roaring applause. Yet others exchange worried looks, and hushed whispers ask for the state of Erebor’s stores, and relations with Dale.

The city is mobilizing. And Erebor’s gates have been closed for the first time in centuries.

“To renewed glory!” Thror toasts and those cheers echo in Thorin’s ears when he descends the long staircases into darkness.

The prison warden hesitated to let Thorin in. “The King ordered no visitors,” he relates.

Thorin growls. “This is my husband.”

And the warden relents. Perhaps he heard of the events occurring above, perhaps Thror’s actions have not convinced him - but Thorin doesn't care.

He stomps forward, clasping the key tightly. Knocks, calls Bilbo’s name, opens the door -

And stops short.

The cell, once again, is utterly dark. Books and candles have disappeared; and Bilbo sits curled on the bed, his back to the wall, hands in his hair, and golden eyes almost fearfully glance into Thorin’s direction.

“Thorin?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” Thorin confirms, looking around in befuddlement. “What happened to the candles?”

Bilbo’s face twists into a bitter grimace. “The King came to visit,” he says, “He did not approve.”

And Thorin's heart breaks. He crossed the distance in three long strides and sinks to his knees before Bilbo’s curled up form.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispers, his mind racing. It must have been hours since his grandfather came here, hours that Bilbo had to sit alone in utter darkness.

A pale hand reaches out in Thorin's general direction and he catches it gently. “I'm sorry.”

Bilbo uncurls a little, stretches out tired limbs, and lifts his face to look (unseeingly) toward Thorin. He is pale, this much Thorin realizes even in the dim light, unhealthily so. His heart clenches and worry surges - but all he can do is grasp Bilbo’s hand a little tighter and carefully tug the hobbit against his own chest.

“Did … Did anything else happen?” Thorin asks hesitatingly. He knows though, and Bilbo exhales softly against his chest.

“He was sending a letter to the Shire,” Bilbo tells him. “Wanted me to sign it.” He laughs bitterly. “I refused and he threatened to have my ears cut off.”

Thorin can't stop himself from gasping. He instinctively turns to look at Bilbo’s ear - but it's hale and in one piece, and relief fills his chest.

“Balin stopped him,” Bilbo says. “But he took one of my rings and cut off your braid.”

Black fury suddenly boils in Thorin’s chest. His grandfather -

For all his mad plotting, Thorin did not expect him to lay hand on such sacred a symbol as a marriage braid.

Now his fingers can feel the chopped of ends of a number of soft curls, and Thorin growls, unconsciously tightening his hold on Bilbo. The hobbit makes an uneasy sound, and Thorin relents.

“I'm sorry,” he says tiredly, “I'm sorry for all of this. I wish there was something I could do.”

Bilbo says nothing, and with a heavy heart Thorin recalls what he must ask of his betrothed.

“Actually,” he begins tentatively, “there is something being done. I … do not know the details, but grandfather’s actions have caused much concern. You saw him, Bilbo. This is not the man I know.”

Bilbo untangles himself slightly, but in the dark he can't make out Thorin’s face. “He did not appear entirely sane,” Bilbo agrees. “But his orders are being obeyed.”

“Reluctantly,” Thorin assures.

“From what I heard not too few were happy to see a hobbit being put into place,” Bilbo replies, a note of spite seeping into his voice.

Thorin’s heart clenches. “I know. This kind of rhetoric … It's spread unchallenged for too long in this mountain. You remember how I used to be.”

“I do,” Bilbo says and sighs. His shoulders slump in Thorin’s grip. “But whether I understand or not, I am still a prisoner among many who wish to see my head roll. Knowing that those demanding my head were manipulated won't save me."

And of course he's right. Thorin flinches. “It won't come to that,” he promises.

“Your grandfather would have cut off my ear today,” Bilbo returns.

Thorin swallows uneasily. He can't - he can't promise Bilbo’s safety after all. “But he was stopped,” he says instead. “And he knows he can't harm you; to him you are a valuable hostage.”

Bilbo remains unconvinced. “Does a hostage need ears?” He asks. “Does a hostage need legs? I'm sorry, Thorin, but I don't trust your grandfather to remember the worth of an unharmed hostage before long. And it will take long before my grandfather reads that letter and longer still before a reply arrives in Erebor. I'm not sure if I -”

Bilbo stops, brows cinched, and Thorin feels worry twist his stomach. “Bilbo? What is it?”

The hobbit takes deep breath. “Just the darkness getting to me, Thorin,” he evades. And looking closely Thorin can see that his skin has grown paler and taken on an unhealthy sheen.

“I'll try to get you out here as soon as I can, Bilbo,” Thorin vows. “I may not be able to get you out of the mountain, but at least out of this prison.”

Bilbo manages a tired smile. “How?”

“As I said, things are stirring. My siblings, they are trying to get the situation worked out, and once my father returns we may be able to change grandfather’s mind. But in the meantime, we need to stabilize the situation.”

“Stabilize?” Bilbo echoes. Thorin wonders how what he is about to say would ever sound good, but he had no choice.

“As things stand, Dale and the Greenwood have heard of your imprisonment. The elves are readying their troops, Dale was offered to make joint cause with Erebor but they won't. By tomorrow Erebor will be under siege and unless word from you or your grandfather arrives they may attack Erebor sooner or later.”

Bilbo's brows furrow. He moves his lips without speaking, puzzled and thinking. “They… would wage war on Erebor to free me,” he summarizes, blinking.

Then he turns to Thorin. “And you would bide me to tell them not to?”

Thorin swallows. Nods. “Only long enough so we may work out our troubles within. I would not see my people die for politics they have no fault in.”

“But those people would see my head roll on a rumor,” Bilbo replies sharply. His hands tighten in the fabric of Thorin’s shirt.

“I know what you're trying to do, Thorin, and it is noble indeed,” Bilbo murmurs, exhausted. “But while I sit here in utter darkness and am at your grandfather’s mercy, I will not write on your behalf.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin starts against better knowledge, and Bilbo shakes his head.

“No, Thorin,” he says. “Your grandfather would see me killed in the blink of an eye, and as long as they take no stand against him I must think all of Erebor shares this desire.”

Thorin bows his head. It's a blow - but he understands.

“Alright,” Thorin says and pulls Bilbo closer against him.

“Get me out of here and I will intercede,” Bilbo offers and lets his head rest against Thorin’s chest. “I don't want to see blood spilled any more than you do.”

“Alright,” Thorin agrees.

* * *

 

Morning dawns tense and uneasy, and Thorin joins his siblings for breakfast, tired but unable to sleep a moment longer. He lingered with Bilbo until the early hours, until Bilbo had long since fallen asleep, finally at rest from the day’s turmoil. But the knowledge he left Bilbo alone in that dark cell does not sit easy on Thorin’s conscience and he pushes his food across the plate.

“Did you speak to your hobbit last night?” Frerin asks after the staff has retreated.

Thorin swallows. Nods.

“Did he write that letter?” Frerin wants to know with unveiled urgency.

Thorin sets his cutlery down. “No,” he says, “He will write it once he has been released from that cell but no earlier.”

“You agree,” Dis observes quietly from where she watches them both.

“Thorin!” Frerin exclaims, and leans forward across the table. “He needs to write that letter! We’ll all be dead if he doesn't!”

“And who guarantees his safety?” Thorin asks quietly in return, thinking about the texture of cut hair under his fingers. “Were you aware grandfather was about to cut off his ear? Balin stopped him. But even Balin could not stop him from cutting off the marriage braid.”

Dis gasps, and Frerin pales. “He…” Frerin presses his lips together. “That is unforgivable, yes, Thorin, I see. But we need that letter! It's a matter of hours before we come under attack, and that will be a bloodbath!”

Thorin swallows. “Then we need to get Bilbo out of that cell.”

Frerin makes to interrupt him, but Thorin presses on. “He is not a dwarf, and what is dim light to us it utter darkness to him. Grandfather won't allow him any candles either - he's basically sitting where he can't see a thing, and if you would visit you could see that it's harming him.”

“But if we all -” Frerin begins, but is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. They all exchange glances, then Dis calls to enter.

A young, harried guard stumbles inside, wide-eyes and out of breath.

“Your highness,” he gasps out, “Erebor is under siege.”

Thorin’s stomach sinks. Frerin pales.

“For what reason?” Dis asks, brows furrowed.

The runner struggles to breathe. “Dale and the Greenwood, your highness,” he manages. “They demand the hobbit be released before nightfall.”

* * *

 

Erebor has fallen into a mode of subdued panic. People are outside in the halls and corridors, whispering of preparations, of war - but in the end they find there is little they can do. With the gate closed and surrounded, nobody can leave Erebor.

Thror will not negotiate.

“There is no need,” he tells his grandchildren when they find him on his way to the throne hall. “Thrain will be here by afternoon with reinforcements from the Iron Hills. He sent his Raven last night. We needn't worry - it's Dale and Greenwood who should.”

Thorin pales at the implications, but Frerin and Dis press on, undaunted. “Should we not at least negotiate then?” Dis says. “Would you have them attacked from behind with no warning?”

“They have sided with the enemy,” Thror replies coolly. “What happens to them they have brought upon themselves.”

Thorin shudders. And wishes the alliance before they gates would not wait to attack, for now the outcome looks ever more uncertain. Thror marches ahead and enters the hall, where clamor and applause await him. The siblings remain in the corridor, looking at each other.

“We should -” Frerin starts.

Dis shakes her head. “It's too early. We haven't had word yet.”

Thorin sucks in a sharp breath.

Frerin purses his lips. “But if grandfather decides to attack we act.”

Dis inclines her head, spins on her heel and marches away. Frerin turns to the throne hall, and nods at Thorin.

“Shall we watch things go from bad to worse?”

* * *

 

Thorin and Frerin slide silently onto the royal family’s balcony. The floor below is crowded with nobles, soldiers, jewelers, miners, and all sorts of dwarves shouting and talking among each other. Tension hangs heavily in the air, but Thror and his advisors radiate absolute confidence

“... no danger at all,” Thror declares loudly, while his closest advisor nods. Thorin looks, but Balin is suspiciously absent, while Dwalin’s face gives nothing away. Thorin catches sight of Gloin in the crowd, looking just as confused as everybody else.

“As we speak, our ally Dain brings his warriors from the Iron Hills to our aid!” Thror proclaims. “And with him we shall smash the siege, break the hobbits’ hold on the east, and Erebor will never bow to anyone again!”

Some clap, some cheer, others look uneasily to their neighbors.

“Dale will regret not having joined our cause!” Thror thunders. “When they see our banners fly, see us walk proud, while they slave under the hobbits’ yoke. And only when they beg on their knees will we consider lending them our strength!”

Ice runs down Thorin’s spine and coils in his stomach. His grandfather's words defy all the old vows of the east, make mockery of all the centuries of mutual assistance between Dale and Erebor. Next to him, Frerin hisses; below the crowd roars.

Most of them have been blinded completely by Thror’s words. Those that don't now have migrated to the back, afraid to voice their thoughts.

“What of the prisoner?” somebody shouts.

Thorin freezes.

Below, Thror’s eyes light up. “Bring him here! He should see the downfall of his peoples’ rule!”

Thorin looks to Frerin, panic surging in his veins. If they drag Bilbo here -

But Frerin shakes his head. They can't do anything. They're swept up in this madness just as everyone else is.

* * *

 

Bilbo has no idea how much time has passed. He cannot sleep, but his consciousness wavers. In the impenetrable darkness he is unable to fight off what tricks his mind plays on him, and the silence allows his mind to wander.

He's cold and his limbs have stiffened. Something gnaws at him; he can feel his energy fading. It feels as if it's more than the darkness and the isolation, but he can't quite put his finger to it. Only that he feels drained to the bone and all the sleep in the world can't cure him.

He wonders if Thorin will be back soon. He hopes so - he's not sure how long he can last.

Bilbo sighs to himself; the sound like thunder in the silence.

Then he perks up. Footsteps thunder down the corridor, growing louder with each passing moment. More than one person, though Bilbo can't tell who it is.

His heart wishes for Thorin. His mind warns him it might be Thror.

Then the door gets thrown open, Bilbo blinks in vain. He can't see. The voice that comes isn't Thorin’s.

“On your feet!”

Bilbo stumbles. He sways, disoriented, and abruptly hands are on him, pulling him roughly to his feet. His arms are pushed behind him before he has managed to get his bearings, and the cold metal fastens around his wrists.

An undignified noise falls from his sore throat, but the dwarves pay him no mind. They push him forward, unforgiving, and shove him along when he stumbles.

His head spins and his body struggles to even make the stairs. He coughs and gasps for air, confused and afraid, but there is nowhere to run.

All he could do is throw himself off the stairs. And he's scared, humiliated and in pain, but not ready to die yet. Seeing light again, faint as it is, and despite the pain it caused his eyes, is a blessing in itself.

And Bilbo realizes much too late he has been dragged right into the throne hall.

* * *

 

The crowd parts and gasps. Thorin’s fingers clench around the balcony’s stone railing as Bilbo is pushed before the throne; a diminutive figure in wrinkled black among a sea of dwarves. He sways on his feet, and Thorin’s heart shudders with worry - he wants to run down, to shout, to order this to stop, to break those chains himself.

But the crowd jeers, the guards are stone-faced, Thror grins wildly, and Frerin is frozen in his spot.

“Hobbit!” Thror booms, and Bilbo flinches, and Thorin wants to end this all, “This is where the rule of your kin ends! Erebor will shake off that yoke; we are proud and free and will not be your slaves any longer!”

“You -” Bilbo begins hoarsely.

“Silence!” Thror thunders, his mad joy blurring into simmering rage. “You had your chance to speak, all those years you had your chance to make things right, but you chose to uphold this system of coercion and slavery! You-”

“Is it custom among dwarves, then,” Bilbo says quietly, but his voice carries, “to pronounce judgement without letting the accused speak?”

Thror goes white with anger. “You -”

But the crowd has heard Bilbo. “Speak!” they begin chanting, “Speak! Plead your cause, confess your evil! Speak!”

Thorin shudders.

“We’re not looking good, are we?” Frerin asks, drily.

Though once again, Thorin finds that those shouting out may be the loudest contingent of the crowd. But not even the largest. Many linger on the fringes, watching the events play out with concern and doubt. Some have their faces hidden by long, dark cloaks, giving Thorin pause - but then Bilbo straightens as well as he can with his hands chained behind his back, his face sallow, and his clothes wrinkled.

“I am glad to see the dwarves of Erebor have not yet copied the orcish custom of sentencing their prisoners without judgement or trial,” Bilbo says, his voice cutting, and the laughter that comes up in response sounds fake and forced to Thorin’s ears.

“Yet still, here I stand, in chains and ridiculed, but no official charges have been brought forth,” Bilbo continues, his eyes bright with anger. “Nor have I received an explanation why I was summoned here, with a letter bearing the King’s seal, falsely claiming my husband was sick. Only to be arrested without charges upon my arrival.”

A titter runs through the hall, but already the jeers rise again. Thror throws up his arms. “You dare to accuse the King of lying?”

Bilbo’s expression hardens. “Yes!” he shouts over the crowd. “I accuse the King of treachery and conspiracy!”

“Kill him!” somebody shouts, and another chimes in “death! Death for those words!”

“Off with his head!”

Thorin can see Bilbo stiffen, but he holds his ground, and his heart clenches with worry, because the crowd is nearly out of control, but his grandfather doesn’t care, and only a handful of his advisors appear concerned.

Thror’s face has twisted into a caricature of himself. “You dare to take the chance given to you to spread poison?” he exclaims, “You dare to accuse the King under the Mountain of falsehood? You shall bear the punishment for those words!”

No, Thorin thinks, no!

“Kill him!”

A sword is drawn. Frerin drops something -

And then Dwalin surges forward, grabs Bilbo and pulls him out of the way. The sword cuts empty air, its wielder stumbles, but two other guards grab him. Several nobles draw their swords, guards storm onto the throne platform, and abruptly Thror himself finds a sword pointed at his throat. Its wielder is masked, clad in no recognizable armor, and Thorin’s blood runs cold.

He’s glad and scared and he doesn’t understand what is happening and he lost track of Bilbo and suddenly Frerin is no longer next to Thorin but climbing down the stairs onto the platform.

“King Thror,” he says coolly, “Grandfather.”

“You miserable whelp!” Thror explodes, “are you -”

The sword is pushed softly, but unwaveringly against the soft skin of his throat.

“Please do not speak for the time being, grandfather,” Frerin admonishes, as he makes his way to the center of the platform. Thorin blinks - Frerin’s heavy blue coat makes sense now, as it easily draws the nervous and unsettled crowd to look to him.

“King Thror has lead Erebor well for many decades,” Frerin says to the crowd, “but lately his actions have caused unease, turmoil, and nearly brought us to war with our longtime allies in this region.”

The crowd whispers among themselves, and Thorin’s back is soaked with cold sweat. This is so risky, so volatile. Just any small accidents will suffice to throw everything off balance, to completely destabilize Erebor, and he can’t believe he is watching this. Hardly dares to draw breath for the fear of disturbing this fragile equilibrium.

“For that reason I declare him no longer fit to wear the crown,” Frerin states quietly. “Erebor’s business shall continue as it has, and King Thror shall live here in all comfort and luxury the mountain can afford him. But the politics will now -”

“I will not hand over the crown!” Thror explodes, ignoring the blade pressed to his throat. If not for an advisor grabbing his arm he’d have skewered himself when surging forward. “I will not bow to your conspiracy! Dain’s nearly here, and then you will see what your actions have brought you, whelp!”

“There is no need for that,” a new voice booms and two of the cloaked figures stride forward from the main door. One draws back their hood, and Thorin recognizes his cousin - Dain’s bright red hair is unmistakable, nor is his grim frown.

And walking next to him, looking far more grieved, is Thrain.

The ground under Thorin’s feet shakes. He clutches the railing a bit tighter, his heart races, and abruptly a familiar voice next to him (and when did Dis get here?) whispers “get your husband, Thorin.”

He staggers forward, head spinning, while below Dain has approached the throne platform.

“I was surprised to read your missive,” Dain proclaims loudly. “Long have we known of your misgivings for the Shire, for slights we did not know whether they were real or imagined. In truth, this mattered little to us, for where Erebor is rich, the Iron Hills have to make do. But what concerned me, and many others, was your willingness to wage war on your oldest allies over these slights.”

Dain pauses, looking Thror into the eye. “I was wary to believe the rumors I heard. But when your own son came with not a request, but an order, for us to supply you with soldiers for your mad venture, I knew them to be true.”

“And you?” Thror bursts out, rounding on Thrain. “Has my own son betrayed me? Have you conspired with Dain when I sent you to gather support?”

Thrain bites his lip - he looks exhausted. “I wished there was another way,” he says, “but you would not listen. Reason no longer reached you, and I found my responsibility to Erebor demanded me to act.”

Dain nods, and then Thorin has reached the end of the staircase. He blindly pushes past several people - and is barely noticed. All attention is focused toward the throne, the tragic final to long weeks of misdeeds and hidden activity.

“Not only has your own letter accused you,” Dain continues loudly. “I have been presented with proof that contracts have been broken on your personal order. Contracts that protect the lives of Erebor’s people.”

Thorin stumbles, looks for Bilbo, for Dwalin, while Dain continues to speak of Thror’s actions, of his plots, and the crowd whispers in shock. Then he spots a familiar tattooed head, and with the name of his beloved on his tongue Thorin elbows his way forward.

“Bilbo,” he breathes as he sinks to the ground where Bilbo is shielded from the crowd by a small circle of guards. The hobbit breathes shallowly, curled against Dwalin, and Thorin’s heart sinks with fear.

“Is he alright?” he demands of Dwalin, not tearing his eyes from Bilbo who begins to turn around at Thorin’s voice.

Dwalin gives a short nod. “Got pushed around a bit, thought it would be better to stay down.”

Out of sight, out of mind, Thorin understands, and claps Dwalin’s shoulder to compliment his quick thinking.

“I’m alright, I suppose,” Bilbo confirms quietly. “Or as good as I can be.” He gazes up, but they can’t see anything over the heads of the guards surrounding them. Bilbo massages his wrists, which bear ugly red welts from the iron manacles.

“I’m so sorry,” Thorin bursts out. “I wish I could have done anything.” Instead he had watched, until it had almost been too late; and that guilt now twists viciously within him.

Bilbo manages a shaky twitch of his lips. His terrible pallor is a reminder of how close it had been - and behind them Thror continues to rail and rant against Frerin, Dain, and Thrain.

“We have also tracked down where the missing parts of the contracted rubies went,” Thrain announces to the crowd which falls silent for a moment.

“They were shipped to Ithilien for no price but the promise of a riot,” Thrain explains darkly. “Our treasures have been used to pay for murder and bloodshed, and by this the King has brought dishonor upon us all.”

The crowd hisses, Thorin gapes. He'd wondered, suspected in the dark recesses of his mind... but he'd not dared to think it, not dared to truly imagine -

“No!” Thror screeches wildly and the crowd erupts. “The only dishonor is in your deeds! How cowardly of you to bend your knees before the -”

“Thorin,” Dwalin interrupts shortly, “But I would recommend getting out of here.”

The guards shield them, but the entire situation remains terribly volatile, Thorin recalls abruptly, there’s no saying if the crowd won’t turn violent, if it won’t turn against Bilbo and Thorin, or who might get hurt in the confusion.

“Alright,” Thorin agrees. “Bilbo?”

“As long as it’s not back to the dungeon…” the hobbit mutters.

“My rooms,” Thorin decides and rises to his feet. He holds out a hand for Bilbo which the hobbit takes, and pulls him up. Bilbo sways a bit, and takes a deep, steadying breath that worries Thorin.

But Dwalin gives the order and the guards start moving and they finally, finally begin to leave the mess here behind. Thorin knows it will catch up with them. Unless they run to Dale now - which may not even be possible considering Erebor may still be under siege - they must face the outcome of this coup.

Thorin only hopes they will survive it.

* * *

 

Bilbo collapses into one of the overwrought, plush armchairs the moment Thorin lets go of him. His knees feel like jelly, his head spins, and it’s as if all the stress and troubles of the last few days are crashing down on him at once.

He doesn’t even catch Thorin call his name at first; only when a large, cool hand slips under the matted curls on his forehead he stirs.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks softly. “How are you feeling?”

Bilbo thinks about it for a moment. “Exhausted,” is what he settles for. Empty, would be another option. Tired, overwrought, weak. As if the marrow had been sucked out of his bones and left him hollow and brittle.

Thorin purses his lips. “Then rest,” he says, “you’ll be safe here.”

Over his shoulder, Thorin tells somebody to “send for Oin”, but Bilbo’s eyes are already closing. It’s curious, he thinks before he passes out, that after having slept so much, his body still needs more sleep.

* * *

 

Thorin sits next to Bilbo’s resting form, uneasy and unable to relax for many hours. Oin has come, cursing about coups that leave Erebor’s main hallways overcrowded and impassable, takes one look at Bilbo and then back at Thorin.

“So that’s him?” Oin asks, marching over to the hobbit’s slumped figure. “Your husband?”

Thorin nods.

“Huh, doesn’t look all that evil,” Oin assesses, before taking Bilbo’s wrist and feeling the pulse. The hobbit doesn’t even stir, but he hadn’t reacted to Thorin covering him with a blanket either.

“He’s not,” Thorin agrees, and Oin smiles thinly.

“Rumor is he bewitched you,” Oin continues cheerfully, “but this doesn’t really feel like magic.”

“How is he?” Thorin asks, not rising to Oin’s needling.

“Mostly just exhausted,” Oin says. “I’m not too familiar with hobbits, but from his looks I’d say a few good meals and rest, and he’ll be right as rain.”

Thorin exhales in relief.

“Though,” Oin straightens, and contemplatively tugs at his beard. “I would recommend getting him out of the mountain. I doubt he’s got good memories of the place, and from what I heard hobbits prefer open skies and fresh air.”

Thorin nods. Swallows. “I will try,” he promises. “Though with the siege…”

“Eh,” Oin shrugs. “If Dain’s here, I don’t think we’re under siege anymore.”

Thorin blinks. Of course. If Thrain and Dain and Dain’s soldiers got into the mountain, somebody must have let them in. He should have figured that out by himself.

Oin claps his shoulders and draws him from his thoughts. “Talk to Bard, I doubt he’ll protest hosting a hobbit somewhere in Dale, and I don’t think he’d mind you there either.”

* * *

 

Thorin is loath to leave Erebor in this time of confusion. The day of the coup ended without bloodshed, yet the air feels charged. Thror remains in his rooms, under guard, and Thrain refused the crown. Which makes sense for few are likely to trust Thrain as he took part in the coup.

On the other hand this leaves Erebor without a King.

Thorin ignores the issues during the next day. The market is abuzz with rumors and talk, but from what Thorin can see all works as usual. Erebor’s gates have opened again, and though hesitant, a few traders from Dale are entering.

Thorin heads out to Dale, still crowded with elves and men, and after some bartering and shouting is allowed to speak to a much harried King Bard. The man is sympathetic to Thorin’s cause.

“You are both very welcome,” Bard says, “but are you not staying in Erebor? I heard Thrain refused the crown, so would not you be next in line?”

Thorin stills. He? King under the Mountain? This feels like an echo from another world; distant and strange, and foreign. And what right has he? He lives in the Shire now; had no idea of the ongoings within Erebor. His siblings and father were the driving forces behind the coup that saved them all - so how could he take up the crown.

“I do not know,” Thorin replies honestly.

Bard smiles tiredly. “Good luck figuring it all out.”

* * *

 

 

Confusion lingers for days after the coup. Thranduil remains reluctant to withdraw his force, so Dale nowadays is crowded by elvish visitors and dwarven guests. The traders from the Lonely Mountain return, but despite a faint unease all find their business returning smoothly.

“Unsurprising,” Dis comments when Thorin tells her of his observations while Bilbo sits in council with Bard and Thranduil. “Those traders were the ones to support grandfather’s politics in the least. His staunch supporters haven’t left the mountain.”

Thorin takes a sip of his ale. “Haven’t they been apprehended?”

Dis sighs. “Only the ones who were involved with the falsification of the trade agreement,” she replies. “Simply supporting the wrong politics isn’t cause enough to imprison anybody. And you’d be surprised how fast some have been to claim they only went along because they had been intimidated.”

Thorin sighs. “Not very surprising at all, then.”

“Indeed,” Dis agrees, and then shrugs. “But for now they’ll be silent. They have seen that their ideas have little support and even fewer chances at being realized. So they will have to adapt to the reality that is Erebor or leave.”

Thorin can imagine his sister waving those people a cheerful goodbye all too well. He finds his lips twitching, before a more sobering thought comes to him. “What about grandfather?”

“Unchanged. Well, he has stopped ranting, but he still fails to see how his plot might have failed or been unwelcome,” Dis says. “I have written Gandalf in case an enchantment is at fault, but -” She trails off with a shake of her head.

“You think it’s his mind,” Thorin concludes, and his sister nods.

Silence envelopes them for a while. That the line of Durin is prone to sickness of the mind has long been known, and should come as no surprise. Still, it pains Thorin to think that the grandfather he grew up with should be lost for good.

“Maybe,” he begins tentatively, “at some point, when all this has been settled… I could ask Bilbo?”

“Do the hobbits also have cures for obscure illnesses that befall only dwarves?”

“I doubt it, but their allies might,” Thorin replies.

“The elves.” Dis wrinkles her nose. “They won’t help us.”

Thorin shrugs. “Not us. But should the hobbits ask…” He glances down at his cup to find it empty. Perhaps the time for him to leave has come.

When he looks up Dis smiles at him. “That’s not a terrible idea, Thorin. Keep it in mind, and should that calmer day come, remind me.”

Thorin nods and stands to say his goodbye. Outside the sun has begun to set, and he makes the short trip to Dale in a rather good mood. Dwarves and men greet him, some with cheer, others with more reluctance.

But the air, to Thorin, feels clear and peaceful, as if a new beginning lies ahead of them.

* * *

 

“Hello cousin,” Dain greets from where he is seated on Thorin’s chair at the table in Bilbo’s and Thorin’s temporary house in Dale. His feet (like Thorin’s) dangle above the ground and he rather contently nurses a pint of ale.

“Dain,” Thorin greets, momentarily bewildered. Then he notices the relaxed atmosphere and sees that Bilbo’s pose bears hardly a trace of tension, so whatever brought Dain here can't have been too bad. Still, “what brings you here?”

“Getting to know the extended family,” Dain cheerfully replies and lift his pint in a toast. Bilbo grins at that, and nods along.

“And I must say I think it all turned out rather well in the end,” Dain concludes and takes a long swig of his ale.

“We were discussing possible trade between the Iron Hills and the Shire,” Bilbo pipes up and waves at Thorin to take a chair as well.

“But that's even farther than Erebor,” Thorin replies, puzzled, while he levers himself up on the too-tall furniture.

“Only from the Shire,” Bilbo says. “It's not so far from Gondor or Rhûn, and I know they have a demand for iron crafts even further south.”

Dain nods. “Mister Baggins here said he'd speak to that cousin of his that oversees the Gondorian trade - they'd help setting up the Iron Hills as a gateway for trade with Rhûn and the lands beyond.”

Which would immensely expand the hobbits’ influence, Thorin thinks, and a shadow of that old unease rolls in his chest.

“Does the Shire have an interest in that?” Thorin asks.

Bilbo shrugs. “Some of us do, probably. But in all honesty, I do not know how well Shire farming practices will do in the east anyway. Also,” He puts down his mug, expression turning serious. “Trade agreements for the east need to be reviewed and renewed in general. The Shire does undervalue your gems and jewels,” Bilbo casts a wry smile at Thorin who stares in surprise. “So we were discussion alternative options. Apparently they have some sort of equity trade down in Khand that might be useful.”

Thorin blinks and looks to Dain who lifts his mug in a smug, silent cheer.

“But will the other hobbits allow that?” Thorin asks, flabbergasted.

Bilbo shrugs. “As long as it gets them more foreign delicacies, I think they can be convinced.”

“I shall relay your suggestions to my council,” Dain cheerfully announces and slides from his chair, “and leave you two alone for the night.”

Of course he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

* * *

 

Later, when the sun has set outside and the noises died down, Bilbo and Thorin sits in comfortable silence in one of the houses’ sitting rooms. Bilbo curled up in an oversized armchair with a book, Thorin with his feet up and whittling.

“Say Thorin,” Bilbo begins after a while, “what will happen to Erebor? I asked Dain earlier but he could not say - only that due to their involvement with the coup your father and brother are likely to face severe resistance should they desire to take the crown.”

Thorin sighs and sets the tiny figurine down. “That is true,” he confirms. “There hasn't been a coup in dwarven history for many years, and it is not kindly looked upon.”

Bilbo purses his lips. “Which would make you a good choice, would it not? You have not been involved with the coup, and you have been trained for the position.”

“That … yes,” Thorin reluctantly agrees. “But I gave up that claim when I married you.”

Bilbo lets his book sink and turns to look to the window. His brows furrow with heavy thoughts. “It was never my intention to deprive you of the crown. I doubt it was anybody’s intention -”

“I know, Bilbo,” Thorin interrupts gently. “It was done so I would survive. I see that now.” Having Dale and the Greenwood ready to go to war over an imprisoned hobbit had shown again what may have happened to Thorin had the slight he committed have become widely known.

Bilbo smiles tiredly. “I think that danger has now passed. Recent events have …

changed things, and should you wish to take the crown, I doubt you would have to fear any misgivings.”

Thorin swallows. His heart clenches with the old desire for Erebor and aches at the memories of the Shire.

“And if I stayed, what would you do?”

Bilbo glances down at his hands - still a little pale from his unfortunate dungeon stay. “I need to return to the Shire. Perhaps in a few years I could train -” He stops himself with a shake of the head.

“Actually, I was meaning to speak to you on this, Thorin,” he begins and Thorin can't tear his eyes away and his heart speeds up. “While things have changed since, our marriage initially was arranged to serve a means. That means has now been fulfilled, and while I … I won't deny having grown affections for you, I do understand if you would rather separate.”

Thorin is left gaping, and the pain in Bilbo’s posture is heart-wrenching. He wants to reach out, embrace him, but sits frozen in place as Bilbo continues.

“It was never my intention to trap you in a loveless marriage, and I know how sacred dwarves hold this union,” Bilbo says, his voice hitching, “and with the crown here waiting for you, I believe -”

Thorin surges forward. Throws his arms around Bilbo and draws him against his chest, ignoring the discomfort of an elbow pressed against his ribcage or that knee digging into his thigh.

“Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs and hides his burning eyes in Bilbo’s curls, “I… I’m not going to leave you. At least, not unless you want me to.”

Thorin swallows down the knot in his throat and pulls back to look at Bilbo’s face. His hobbit’s eyes are just as red-rimmed as his own, and Thorin finds his lips twitch.

“You spoke of what I want, but what about you? You were brought into this marriage against your own will as well, and for even lesser gain than I was.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.”

Thorin tightens his grip on him. “But it does. If you give me the choice, Bilbo, then I would never part from you again. I have fallen in love and I don't intend to ever stop loving you, but I will not force you to stay at my side of that is not what you want.”

Bilbo gulps and hands come up to bury themselves in Thorin’s hair. “I wouldn't part from you either, if that is your desire.”

“It is.”

A smile ghosts over Bilbo’s features. “Alas, we still have to puzzle out how to achieve that. If you take the crown -”

Thorin shakes his head. “I don’t think I will. I was trained for it, yes. But then there never was an option and having lived through this intrigue now, I do not believe I am cut out to deal with court conspiracies and politics. I was trained to take the crown, but I don't desire it.”

“But who then…”

Thorin smiles. “While I think either my father or my brother would do a great job, in light of recent events I would think my sister will make a promising contender.”

Bilbo's eyes widen. “Your sister?”

“Aye. Erebor has never had a Queen as its regent, but I think it’s time to consider that.” Dis will be delighted, Thorin thinks, and thrive in the role. She had already terrified half the council and long been known as one of the most influential members of the Royal family - the transition would be easy.

Bilbo blinks. “Well, alright. What will you do then? Advise her?”

“As well as I can,” Thorin replies and rests his head stop Bilbo’s once more. “But I was actually planning to return to the Shire.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen. “You…”

“I love you, Bilbo,” Thorin says. “And I would stay with you as long as you want me to.”

Bilbo makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, then his arms tighten around Thorin. “Then Bag End will be your home, too, Thorin. Because I love you as well.”

* * *

 

His siblings take the news of Thorin’s impending departure surprisingly well. Thrain sighs and levels a sad smile at his son. “I've only seen you for such a short time,” he laments.

“I know,” Thorin says, and it does make him sad.

Thrain shakes his head. “Don't worry, my boy. For what it's worth, I am glad things turned out as they did - I had been terrified when we had to leave you in the Shire.”

“It's not such a terrible place,” Thorin mumbles.

Thrain smiles. “Maybe you could show me?” He suggests, and Thorin perks up at that.

“I won't become King under the Mountain,” Thrain declares. “But everybody seems to think that would make me the ideal diplomatic envoy.”

“You dealt with Dain beautifully,” Frerin calls over as he steps through the door. He throws down a large map of documents on the table and sighs.

“It's all agreed on,” Frerin declares. “Dis will become King under the Mountain. The last council members finally relented.”

Thrain smiles. “She'll do a great job,” he says. Then a shadow passes his face. “I’m only sorry this came at the price of your own chance, Frerin. You would have made a fair and good ruler, I am certain.”

Frerin shrugs and helps himself to an apple from the fruit bowl sitting on the table. “I wouldn't know about that,” he says. “I’d rather prefer being the bad sheep, but now that Thorin’s gone and eloped with a hobbit, that role is taken.”

Thorin laughs. “You’ll have to be the responsible sibling then.”

* * *

 

Dis’ coronation is a grand ceremony. King Bard and King Thranduil and several of their dignitaries are present and seated on richly decorated balconies. Bilbo sits with Thorin on the balcony reserved for the royal family, both clad in matching cloaks that are a magic feat conducted by the Royal tailors.

Below Dis walks toward the crown, her steps measured and proud. She radiates confidence in her diamond-studded blue cloak and armor underneath.

He's glad she is the one to take these steps, Thorin thinks. If he is honest with himself, he has never been too suited to the political intricacies of ruling. He had been taught well, certainly, but so had Dis and out of all of them she possesses the greatest aptitude.

She will lead Erebor to new centuries of glory and prosperity.

Thror’s absence is perhaps the only thing to dim the ceremony’s grand spectacle. But he's in no shape for company - he does not rave anymore, but his words have lost all sense and reason, and the elves have agreed to dispatch a mind healer.

Below, Dis puts the crown on her own head. It's a symbolic gesture - she has won this crown on her own power, and by her own power she will rule.

Then she turns to the amassed dwarves and guests. “Dwarves of Erebor, Lords and Ladies, Kings and Kin from near and far,” she proclaims loudly, her voice fierce and unshaken in the large hall. “From this day forward to the day Mahal has ordained I shall wear this crown. In my deeds I promise to serve the good and prosperity, her subjects, her neighbors, and her friends.”

A smile pulls on Thorin’s face.

“She’s changed the words a bit,” Frerin cheerfully whispers to Bilbo who raises an eyebrow. Below Dis continues her adjusted version of the old vows to the rapt attention of all who listen - the coronation words have not changed for centuries, yet these words fit better.

“And whence the day comes, I shall pass the crown to the next of my line,” Dis says and Fili - after a deep, fortifying breath - steps forward. The crowd ohs and ahs, and Frerin leans forward.

“Did we look that pale, too?” he asks of Thorin. Bilbo blinks at him, and Thorin very dimly remembers another ceremony, a long time ago, when Thror had officially announced the line of succession. He’d been but a little older than Fili, and Frerin younger than Kili.

“You’d gotten blueberry stains on your tunic,” Thorin recalls abruptly.

“So had Dis,” Frerin protests, while Bilbo covers his mouth to keep from giggling. “And you didn’t have stains, but your fingers were so blue people wondered for weeks what had happened. Didn’t Balin end up making up some story about you having had an accident in the forge?”

“As if-”

“Shush,” Bilbo interrupts them, eyes sparkling with mirth, “let your sister have this moment.”

She’s been having her moment for a while now, Thorin wants to protest. And looking down at Fili and Kili - rather pale at being cast in the spotlight so abruptly - he thinks they wouldn’t mind a distraction either. But he understands what Bilbo means, and so does Frerin. They lean back against the comfortable pillows that line their seats, and watch the remaining ceremony in silence.

When Dis finishes her refreshingly short speech, the hall erupts in frantic cheering and applause. The noise drones out the music, and Thorin can’t help but think that Dis’ words truly moved the crowd. Perhaps after years of formulaic repetitions of ancient vows that did not bring about any change, even the traditional dwarves of Erebor are ready for something new.

He rises with a smile while below Dis makes her exit, flanked by her nephews and advisors. [Frerin, Bilbo, and him join them in one of the hall’s adjoining meeting rooms which buzzes with cheerful congratulations and chatter.](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/153439565904/of-growing-things-final-chapter-to-new-beginnings)

“An amazing speech,” Bilbo comments when he finally has elbowed his way to Dis’ side, “and a beautiful ceremony. Congratulations, your highness.” He bows (a gesture the assembled nobles certainly don’t miss) and Dis smiles, her eyes gleaming with calculation.

“Thank you, brother in law, and I do hope we can discuss a few of my ideas in the near future,” she says, and Bilbo’s eye light up as well.

“I would love to,” he replies, and then elegantly makes space for the next person waiting to congratulate the new King under the Mountain.

“They make a rather frightening combination,” Frerin whispers next to Thorin, making him jump. “I guess we should consider ourselves lucky it wasn’t Dis who accompanied father on that trip.”

Thorin opens his mouth to protest, only to find he has nothing to say. Of course, Dis would never have made the diplomatic faux pas that resulted in an arranged marriage. But Dis and Bilbo together would by now probably rule all the way from Eriador to Harad.

“What are you two talking about?” Bilbo asks as he reaches their side again.

Frerin shrugs. “Just thinking about what-ifs. You know, if instead of Thorin Dis or I had gone to that meeting.”

“Oh,” Bilbo turns contemplative. Then his lips curl. “Well, I have to admit I’m rather glad it was Thorin in the end.”   

* * *

 

 

It's a beautiful summer day when Thorin and Bilbo depart Erebor. The sun has just risen above the horizon, lighting the world in a fresh, golden glow. Dew dots the grass and lush pines trees, the laden ponies swish their tails and impatiently stir their hooves.

The traders stop on their way to watch the rare sight of the entire royal family gathered outside of the throne hall. Dis embraces her brother, who is clad in a dashing travel cloak that matches the one of his hobbit husband.

Said hobbit watches the tearful goodbyes with a smile, before Frerin walks up to him and wished him a safe trip and patience with his brother.

Bilbo laughs and some of the dwarves watching being to wonder. All those long years they heard terrible tales of hobbit, but this one does look pleasant. He's also married a dwarf, so maybe hobbits aren't all that bad and hate dwarves either.

Little do they know that among Bilbo’s luggage rests a new trade proposal he outlined with Dis, Balin, Bard, and many others. Not all in the Shire may agree, but Bilbo is confident he will get it approved, and future trade between the Shire and Erebor will be facilitated.

“The only thing I wonder about,” Bilbo says as he and Thorin begin their long journey, “is whether any of mine or your grandfather’s letters ever reached the Shire. We never heard back from them, did we?”

Thorin gulps. “No.”

“Well,” Bilbo shrugs lightly. “We will find out, I suppose.”

So they turn their backs onto Erebor’s snow-covered slopes, pass the open gates of Dale and the glittering waters of the Long Lake before reaching the old elven road through the Greenwood.

Thranduil sends his son out to greet and escort them, and despite all his misgivings they’re almost sad to part at the borders of the woods. Beyond green hills, the Misty Mountains rise steeply.

Crossing them again does not constitute Bilbo’s favorite part of the journey - but he doesn't mind that he can cuddle up to Thorin underneath the blanket on the higher, cooler slopes.

They pass Rivendell, traverse the wilder lands, and soon the landscape gentles and grows familiar. Bilbo smiles, for he is glad to be home again, and Thorin, too, relaxes in the saddle.

* * *

 

Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield reach Hobbiton just a fortnight shy of Bilbo’s birthday and cause a minor scandal by interrupting a vicious and ongoing debate on Bilbo’s fate and subsequent actions.

A faction lead by Bilbo’s more odious relatives has been campaigning to declare Bilbo dead as per the letter from Erebor, seize his estate, and embargo Erebor, Ithilien and all other dwarves utterly and completely.

A less odious and more pragmatic (or greedy) faction had seconded the embargo but had also wanted to wage war on the Lonely Mountain in order to seize their possessions (and possibly Bilbo in case he happened to survive).

The moderate faction had pleaded for negotiations, while the rest of the Shire had pointed to Bilbo’s own letter, received a few days after the first missive and wondered what there was to argue about.

“Ach, it was a good opportunity to shout and stomp for a bit,” Primula Brandybuck, on visit to Hobbiton with her family, relays. “You wouldn't believe, but Lobelia made joint cause with us. Said she’d love to send a battalion of orcs your way after it became clear she wouldn’t get to send them to Ithilien. No offence, Mister Thorin.”

Her skin has darkened from the southern sun - unlike her husband who still looks slightly red where he plays some foreign game with a Frodo who seems to have inherited his ability to withstand the sun from his mother.

Thorin shrugs and takes a sip of the cool fruit juice that sits on the table while the sun beats down on them. The summer heat yet lingers, and he has exchanged his leathers and furs for delicate silks and linens.

“She’d have literally sent them my way,” Bilbo clarifies with a shudder, and Thorin finds that despite the terrible memories his lips can still twitch.

“Eh, it's how they express affection, I heard,” Primula says and fans herself with her head. “Anyway, it's great you came back before we ended up writing to Mordor or the Wizards or somesuchthing.”

Thorin keeps sipping his juice. He will, he thinks to himself, simply have to get used to this kind of talk. In Erebor they’d made grand declarations in grand halls, the hobbits plot the end of the world over cool drinks on picnic blankets while wearing straw hats.

“Grandfather would not have allowed it,” Bilbo hedges, and turns his head to the sun. He's regained the color he lost in Erebor’s dungeon during their journey home, and Thorin thinks he’s never looked better. Instead of black Bilbo now wears blues and greens and yellows.

Primula tilts her head. “He was rather distraught,” she says. “I doubt he'd have written himself, but he would not have stopped anybody else either.”

Bilbo closes his eyes. “He shouldn't. Such a letter might have caused devastation.”

“Well,” Primula’s lips pull down. “We do need to look out for ourselves, don’t we? And it’s not as if the Shire had any weapons, or magic, or army - our allies and their goodwill are all that defends us.”

Bilbo says nothing.

Thorin remembers thinking the hobbits magical, evil, and powerful. Those notions seem to hail from another lifetime.

“It’s goodwill paired with fear,” Thorin says. “When Bilbo was imprisoned, Dale and the Greenwood laid siege to Erebor within a day. They feared for their food supply, and I know so do many others.”

“Which is also why some think us tyrants,” Bilbo adds quietly.

Thorin cringes and Primula’s lips twitch. “That new contract you presented is addressing that, isn't it? An equity trade?”

Bilbo smiles sharply in return. “I heard it works for Khand, and they trade with countries we've never heard of.”

“Not everybody's going to like letting go of that power,” Primula replies.

“Would folks in Ithilien like it?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin's eyebrows shoot up. Primula finished her mission to the south quite quickly - her results further implicating Erebor but also absolving Gondor itself from the blame.

“I feel they'll love it much more in theory than in practice,” she replies. “Their soil is difficult, and they'll need a far reach to sell at a good price.”

“So integrating with other trade networks would help them?” Thorin asks.

Bilbo sighs and shrugs. “From the looks of it, yes. But we have no idea of the possible pitfalls and challenges. The equity trade we’re proposing for the east is something very new - who knows how it will actually play out.”

“But for now I know I’d rather have some more of that raspberry pie,” Bilbo adds and with a smile Thorin reaches forward and cuts another piece off the delicious cake.

Who knows what the future holds.

But sitting in the warm late summer sun at his beloved’s side, knowing his family and friends safe and happy, knowing they have plans and precautions and safeguards, Thorin allows the worries that have plagued him for so long to slip away.

They will do what they can to make things better. And enjoy their lives while they can.

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over. It's done. 
> 
> And well, we do hope you enjoyed the ride! We'd be happy to hear from you, either here or on tumblr ([ iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com) | [paranoidfridge](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com))! 
> 
> While most questions were hopefully answered within the story, here's a little outline how Middle Earth came to look like it does in the story: 
> 
> About four hundred years ago (in this storyline), hobbits first helped people from Bree with farming. No magic, just expertise (men were distracted by wars and stuff. Hobbits used that time to get to know plants and soil) - and word spread down to Rohan and soon they came knocking. “Can you help us?” And the hobbits wondered what they wanted in return. Men could help them with some odd jobs - but mostly in offering protection for the hobbits in times of need. Others heard of it and joined - it's not such a bad deal, offering military protection in return for support with farming, is it?
> 
> Now, this system had centuries to grow. Hobbits aren't bad at managing - but they unwittingly enforce specialization. Meaning countries now depend on others to supply their citizens with everything needed. On top of that they've got a centralized system, meaning all trade decisions must run by them. With growing dependence on them for food, their power starts to grow. Add the promises of protections and all of a sudden the Shire can command major military forces.
> 
> So, everyone else's power has been eroded, rumors grow (hobbits are evil, hobbits have magic). The system the hobbits started out with now is actually harming some places (Erebor's jewels fetch no decent price in the Shire, but would sell very nicely in other places) - yet at the same time they have to fear relinquishing power because who knows what will happen to them (they have no fighters).
> 
> And in this situation, Bilbo and Thorin meet. Thorin initially has never met a hobbit. What he knows about them has been colored by prejudice and the very real disadvantage Erebor faces in trading with the Shire. Thror is quietly slipping over the edge, mirroring his descend into goldmadness in canon - only in this universe it's more a lust for gold and power that in turn informs his hatred of the hobbits and his plots (he's not in this on his own. There are others in Erebor who are willing to "make sacrifices" (aka let some of their own starve or instigate riots and murder in other places (Ithilien)) in order to reestablish Erebor's dominance over the east). Bilbo on the other hand knows that the hobbits' power is mostly a discursive construct - and the Shire's major source of power and protection. (But since at heart they're decent people, they manage to figure it out, and start working to resolve the overregional inequalities). 
> 
> Well. If the story continued from here it would likely feature Middle Earth struggling with free trade and globalization.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a line? Either here or on tumblr ([iraya](http://iraya.tumblr.com) | [paranoidfridge](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)).


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